


Fade Into You

by GoodbyeBabylon



Series: Rx for the Hurt [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bucket List, Canon Compliant, Face-Sitting, Flavored Lube, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Hot Tub Sex, Hotel Sex, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Making Out, Mentions of Cancer, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Public Hand Jobs, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Road Trips, Shotgunning, Spit As Lube, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 111,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodbyeBabylon/pseuds/GoodbyeBabylon
Summary: Spoilers for S7 and S8.But it was more than just a little under two years of fucking things up.Because how had it only been a couple of months since Jimmy had looked at him, face open and anxious as he breathed out those words that crushed House so completely.“I have cancer.”Or ... how the fuck do you say goodbye to someone you love?
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: Rx for the Hurt [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941922
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10





	1. You live your life, you go in shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Chrissake - I'm *way* late, but it also *clearly* got away from me. Got away from me enough that I had to break it into two (slightly) smaller pieces. To be completely fair, I've had the info as a draft since Dec 21 as a way to motivate myself to finish, but this bit has spiraled devastatingly (as we approach 100k words). I've no idea how I fell back into this ship because I haven't written Hilson since 2015, but I've crashed and burned right back into it, haven't I.
> 
> I will also 100% admit that my editing on this is haphazard at best, mostly because this thing is a monster - so like, just pretend you don't see any mistakes, m'kay? Same with tags, if I missed something, let's just pretend I didn't :)

How absolutely _shitty_ of that probably there, fucked up God – ruler of the _fuck you_ universe and master of _get fucked_ fate – was it that House had to die, if only in name, to live his _best_ life. Because how long ago had it been? Just a year and a half of mistakes, give or take. Admittedly not some of the worser mistakes he had ever made, but some pretty shitty ones nonetheless. For everyone involved.

Because how had it been just a little under two years ago that he had managed to try to fall back in it with Cuddy, forced her and Wilson to squabble for his affections. Which should have been nice, but somehow Cuddy had managed to take it a step further as she’d grabbed his dick in Wilson’s office, as if drawing a line in the sand. And Wilson had blinked up at her dumbly, his gaze shifting over to House hotly. He could almost pretend there was something possessive in the younger man’s gaze, but then Jimmy had just leaned back in his chair with a nod. And House, for all his ill premonitions about his and Cuddy’s relationship had told himself what could it hurt to try?

So, he had tried. Haphazardly, stiltedly tried but tried nonetheless.

He’d compromised and he’d talked and he’d swayed to Cuddy’s wishes. And Jimmy had told him that was apparently what people did when they loved each other, when they _tried_. They compromised and talked and swayed. And House had been willing to try.

But then he’d watched Wilson with Rachel, watched as the younger man fumbled his way through temporary parenthood a little better than House had. And there had been that unbidden wonderment of what could have been; the thought of if it had been him and Jimmy instead of him and Lisa and if it would have made any difference at all. Would House have been any more open to the idea of children; would they have held more appeal if they were his and Wilson’s? Because in general, House didn’t particularly _like_ kids. They were sticky and loud and messy, which House was fully capable of being, all on his own. But there was something about the thought of Jimmy with a baby on his chest.

Which must have been something that had also seemingly sparked down in Wilson, because the younger man had casually mentioned it to Sam and it had not been well-received, Jimmy had admitted later over beers. And House had just hummed noncommittally instead of listing off all the reasons why Wilson should just cut his loses with Sam, which had been the way to go. Because in the end, Wilson had proposed to Sam once more. House had tried to overlook that barb of hurt, seeing Jimmy in his lovely tux, kneeling on the floor because he’d been on the receiving end of those words before – didn’t matter if they were fake. So, he’d made the decision to not lie to Cuddy again, to _actually_ try. But Sam had left Wilson in the end, and the younger man had found his way back to House’s apartment once more. And he had seen the rejection in Jimmy’s face, the way it softened in its hurt as House chose Cuddy.

It would have been the right time to end things with Cuddy, to fall back into it with Jimmy. But he’d told himself he would try. That he would try to step into that premade family and live the life his mother wanted for him. So, he hadn’t. He’d let the door of his apartment close behind Jimmy, and things had escalated because then he was meeting Lisa’s mom, and ended up getting approval from the elderly lady, even though he really didn’t want it. And House had tried to pull his thoughts away from Jimmy, had tried to throw himself into it with Lisa even more. But then he’d wound up wrapped up in Wilson’s dating life, because the younger man was single for perhaps the longest time since House had known him, and _that_ was dangerous. Because as he had laid in bed with Cuddy, his mind had offered up countless memories of Wilson tucked in against his side, the younger man fucked out and pliant, their bodies curled together. And while it should have been a clear indication that House should have given up the dream of a relationship with Cuddy, it hadn’t. Instead, House had gone for broke and tried even harder to convince himself that Lisa and Rachel were the family he _needed_ – his wants aside.

In the end, the thought of losing Cuddy had driven him back to the Vicodin. And if he was going to lose her, he might as well lose them both. So, House had told Jimmy he was back on the drug in a moment of defiance, a prod at the younger man’s disdain for the pills. And if he’d been thinking more clearly, House would have taken Wilson up on the offer to move back in – after all, it’d been _their_ apartment. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had gone on a whirlwind of self-destruction because if he’d been meant to be a miserable bastard, then he’d at least be a miserable bastard who had a good time. And somehow, after one too many tequila shooters, a good time had apparently equated to getting married. House had figured that if what he had felt for Cuddy was real, he would have felt worse watching her walk out of his living room. But instead, he’d only had eyes for Wilson, and that hurt had barbed down in his guts. Because the younger man had simply rolled his eyes and shook his head and looked worn down. But at least Jimmy finally knew how House felt, because he’d stood by the oncologist’s side for two weddings, for two marriages that had been doomed from the start. He had tried to ignore the ache as he watched Wilson clap as was deemed appropriate before he trailed after Cuddy. Because of course the younger man would choose to be the Knight in Shining Armor for an attractive woman rather than stand by House’s side for a momentous – albeit fake – moment of marital bliss.

Not that it had mattered much in the end, because Jimmy had still been his, the whole fake marriage aside. Because Wilson had agreed to the ridiculous bet about the chickens, and had managed to pull one over on him, getting found with _House’s_ chicken. And that was just the kind of bastardly thing that pulled at House’s heartstrings. But even that had been short-lived, because House had tried to cut tumors out of the wreckage of his thigh, and once more he’d woken up with Wilson at his bedside. And what had House done to deserve that? Because Jimmy had looked so worn down and defeated where he was folded down into the chair, but he had _stayed_.

Well, Jimmy had stayed right up until House had left.

And how had it only been roughly half a year ago since he’d crawled back to Princeton-Plainsboro, under the assumption it had been back to James Wilson? Only to have the younger man ignore him, brush him off until Jimmy had _finally_ stepped into House’s space and told him to analyze it however he liked; told him that they weren’t friends anymore. And House had felt those words punch down into him, spreading icy fingers in his chest and clutching at his heart until it squeezed still. Because how had _that_ been worse than killing Wilson’s girlfriend. How had it been worse because _House_ had eventually been the one to go to jail, had been the one to play _don’t drop the soap_ and to write unsent words of apology. The worst Jimmy had suffered was the unpleasantness of a broken wrist.

Roughly half a year since he had tried to serenade Jimmy with _My Heart Will Go On_ – trying to make it a joke and failing, because it had cinched in House’s chest sharp and tight. Because Wilson had brushed him off. Because Wilson, _damn him_ , had managed to keep things professional. The younger man had managed to focus only on his patient, ignoring all of the good times they had shared. And even as House had tried to barter for Wilson’s affection with food, with acts of service, the oncologist had still held him at arm’s length. Because Jimmy had managed to stay just there at the edges, with almost hinted-at smiles but wary eyes. And House had admitted that he _liked_ the younger man, had fun with him because he hadn’t been ready to tell the younger man the truth. To admit that he was desperately, _stupidly_ in love with James Wilson.

How had it been barely six months since he had saved Jimmy’s patient and Wilson had clocked him, sent him sprawling while those cold espresso eyes flashed with irritation and hurt. But it had been fine, more than fine when the younger man had broken House down to nothing with a soft inquiry of dinner later; had bullied through and told House that he’d pick something up. And how those words had breathed life back into him, reinflated lungs he hadn’t known had punctured.

Since they had fallen back together, mouths broke open and panting hotly. And he’d been right all along, that makeup sex with the younger man had taken him apart so surely, built him back up so that only Jimmy remained. Because it had been hurried and frantic, way too much after way too long, a desperate disregard for House’s leg. But he could still remember the bruising clutch of Wilson’s fingers, bearing down into flesh as if to keep him there. And House could remember skin digging under his nails as he scrabbled frantically at Wilson’s back, trying to pull the younger man closer when that would have been impossible. And he hadn’t been able to walk without feeling it down in his hips for a week. But it had been worth it, to feel the slowing pound of Jimmy’s heart where their chests pressed together. And for the younger man’s hot, heavy weight to press him down into the mattress, their skins stuck messily together with sweat and lube and cum.

And how had House forgotten how lovely it was waking up with Wilson? How had he forgotten the lazy tangle of their legs, of Jimmy tucked in against his chest, the sleep-heavy exhale of Wilson’s breath against his skin? Because it was everything, he had told himself as he drifted back off.

Well, maybe not everything because the second time he had woke up, it had been to an empty bed and resulted in a sinking feeling in the pit of his chest, right behind his sternum as House struggled out of the wrecked covers. That sense of dread had been unfounded though because he’d found Jimmy in the kitchen in his boxers from the night before and House’s discarded Def Leppard tee. The younger man’s hips had swayed as he sang along lowly with the stereo as Jim Morrison crooned.

Over macadamia nut pancakes and fried eggs in bed, Jimmy had stolen bites off House’s plate while sipping his coffee. “He wrote poetry, you know,” Wilson had said before he crammed another bite past his teeth, humming as he chewed. Which, House had known, even if he hadn’t really _read_ any of it, but it had surprised him that Jimmy had known. Because Wilson was more the type of person to listen to symphonies or showtunes. But Wilson had sipped his coffee, leaned back against the headboard, and surprised House once more. “I called you up to anoint the earth. I called you to announce sadness falling like burning skin. I called you to wish you well; to glory in self like a new monster. And now I call you to pray,” Jimmy had recited, getting to his feet to refill his coffee mug. And House had been floored, watching the younger man leave the bedroom. Because it had been one thing for Jimmy to know Morrison had written poetry; it had been a completely different one for Wilson to recite verses from memory. How had House been expected _not_ to kiss Jimmy when the younger man climbed back into bed? How could he have resisted? After all, he was only a red-blooded male driven crazy by the younger man, so he had pressed his mouth to the oncologist’s, tasting syrup and coffee as House licked into Jimmy’s mouth. They hadn’t made it out of bed that day. Instead, House had rested his cheek against the cut of Wilson’s scapula, falling into breath with the younger man as their skin cooled and his thoughts ran rampant.

How had James Wilson managed to continue to astound him, intrigue him, _enthrall_ him after so many years in each other’s orbit?

Because of course the man who had lied about liking monster trucks just because _House_ liked monster trucks would be able to recite obscure poetry from a long-dead rock god.

It had been impossible for House to _not_ fall deeper in love with Wilson, to not want to fall back into bed with the younger man. But it hadn’t lasted long, as Jimmy had tapped the brakes and begun reestablishing professional boundaries. And House had been able to see it – that soft, yearning part of Wilson reaching out for affection while his mind offered up way too many memories of the younger man being burned. All House had wanted was for the oncologist to find his way into House’s bed once more, but Jimmy had doggedly stuck to sleeping on the couch or not staying over at all. Which was all wrong on so many fronts, but it wasn’t exactly something House could call Wilson out on, because he had told himself he could prove to Jimmy that House was deserving of his friendship, of his love. House had told himself he could rebuild the foundation of their relationship from the scattered ashes from when it had imploded the moment he’d driven his car into Cuddy’s dining room window.

House had decided to take what he could get, trying to show the younger man he had _grown_ with trying to be selfless with Dominika. He’d been doing well, staying in his own bed, but House had always had a weak spot for a pretty brunette and Dominika had turned out to be more interesting than he’d ever expected, although someone willing to marry a stranger for a green card was already a little more interesting than most. It hadn’t helped that Jimmy had basically turned a blind eye to him sexually after that one last romp in the sheets, but House had managed to stay out of Dominika’s bed. And then Chase had gone and fucked that all up by getting stabbed and making House feel something a little like guilt, so maybe he had been turning over a new leaf as a person. Which definitely wasn’t something he had wanted in the end, because Jimmy had made it pretty apparent that the younger man wanted no _romantic_ part of House and that they were better off as friends.

So, it had only made sense that House would try to sweep everything that loitered between them away in an attempt to show Jimmy that not having kids was a great thing, because he hated feeling a little upset at seeing Wilson so pulled down. He could only imagine how the younger man’s mother had lamented the lack of more grandchildren, but admittedly _maybe_ hiring a child actor to play Jimmy’s child hadn’t been the best choice, because Wilson had – _of course_ – done the admirable thing and reached out to the kid. And that had wrenched at House’s guts, because he could imagine Jimmy as a dad, bumbling his way through the paces and trying to be an understanding and compassionate parent as he just _accepted_ the kid as his own without so much as a fucking paternity test. He had just taken House’s, and Beth’s, word for it. And the ploy had just continued to backfire as Jimmy just took it and ran with it, ran with the excitement of a new adventure, so House had upped the ante. But in the end, watching Wilson spiral had been less fun than he had expected, and he had told the younger man it was all some sort of joke. Lucky for him, after almost eighteen years of dealing with House’s bullshit, Jimmy had just huffed out a breath of a laugh out and let it go.

And then Jimmy had also turned the whole thing with the hooker into more that is had been. Or rather more than a hooker would offer up because Emily was getting married. And _that_ had been hard to ignore because it hadn’t mattered that House had wanted more with _Wilson_ and that Emily was just a proxy, because Jimmy had blatantly ignored that possibility and told him instead to actually _try_ with Dominika. And he had. Oddly enough, when he _had_ tried more seriously with Dominika, she’d found out he’d been hiding her green card status from her and left in the end. They _always_ left in the end. Well, everyone but Jimmy.

But it was more than just a little under two years of fucking things up.

Because how had it been only been a couple of months since Jimmy had looked at him, face open and anxious as he breathed out those words that crushed House so completely.

“I have cancer.”

And those words had punched into House, had snatched the breath from his lungs, because the thought of _Cuddy_ possibly having cancer hadn’t even begun to compare to hearing Wilson utter those three _soul-crushing_ words. Because that wasn’t something Jimmy would have laid at his feet unless the younger man was _completely_ sure. Like a coward, he had run from the room as best he could. But there had been that little part of his brain that had kindly reminded him it was easier to deny a problem if he couldn’t see it. It didn’t matter that House had sat in his chair, facing Wilson’s office through plaster and glass, and had adamantly told himself time and time again that Wilson was just having him on. But the denial had rung hollow inside his skull.

Wilson had cancer.

In a cruel twist of fate, Jimmy had been doled out that terminal punishment, and oh, the biting irony of dying at the hands of something the younger man had spent so long fighting against.

House’s anger had bubbled out of the cracks in his chest the longer he thought about it. Because of course that been exactly the kind of bullshit he should have expected that probably there, fucked up God to pull, but the thought had never crossed House’s mind. It was probably narcissistic of him to think it, but of course that twisted deity would target Jimmy if only to cripple House further. In that fucked up chess game of life, Wilson was his queen and losing him was as good as losing the game. House had up and left the hospital, driven home way too fast, and fallen into his cups, getting angrier and angrier until he had smashed a relatively nice bottle of bourbon against the kitchen floor and swept a few dirty dishes off the counters. He had spent uncounted hours crumpled on the sofa pulling at his hair with gritted teeth as he cursed God. And that anger had driven him to insert himself into Jimmy’s appointment, to day drinking because all those fucking pamphlets that the oncology ward passed around were absolutely _worthless,_ or so he’d found as he sat in Kondo’s office and glared at those scans of the mass of cancerous cells stuck to the wall of his best friend’s chest _._ Because the Five Stages of Grief had been so fucking _understated_ in those mass-produced booklets of information. Because he would do anything, _everything_ in his power to save Jimmy.

Over a tumbler of bourbon, House had picked at his knee through his jeans and mulled it over with thoughts creeping and languid while that anger roiled way down in his guts. The amber liquor steeped slowly into his mind and cleaved him down to bone. Because if Jimmy needed a friend, House could offer that up. Had told himself that just that once, he could be what James Wilson needed, all his own feelings aside.

Which, coincidently enough, was how House had found himself roped into administering chemotherapy, if one could call it that, in his fucking living room. If ever there had been a moment when he _seriously_ thought it possible for him to lose his license to practice, short stint in prison aside, it had been right then. Right in that moment as Wilson slouched on his sofa in sweatpants and a half-undone jacket with his smooth chest peeking out, like some sort of boxer sitting in his corner before a fight. Right as House slipped the IV into the smooth expanse of Jimmy’s hand, as he hung the fluids and the makeshift treatment. But that had just been at the start of it, and everything had so rapidly unraveled as the hybrid concoction of poisons had torn Wilson down faster than House had expected. The younger man had slumped against him, clung to him, sobbed into the crook of his neck, and House had _never_ felt so fucking helpless. It had eaten at him, as he slipped pain meds past Wilson’s dry lips, gave the younger man sips of tepid water, brushed sweat dampened hair back off Jimmy’s forehead as the oncologist rested against him hotly. But what alternative had there been? To let Wilson go it alone? Abso _fucking_ lutely not. Didn’t matter that those couple of days had drained him, emotionally and physically, because he’d taken the whole thing on as penance. Not to mention, it had been a kind of a precious thing to see Jimmy vulnerable and trusting, needing House as much as House needed Wilson. Which had been a fucked-up thought that House had sworn he would keep to himself, as he pushed his fingers through Jimmy’s hair, let his lips brush along clammy skin and the younger man slept fitfully against him.

But the scan had come back with less than stellar results, because while the tumor hadn’t _grown,_ it definitely hadn’t _shrunk_ either. Just an ominous white mass attached to the wall of the chest cavity. The contrast of it against the black of the cavity had driven House’s breath out of his lungs, even as he had tried to tell himself the redeeming points. At least Tumie hadn’t spread to the lymph nodes, hadn’t metastasized in other important places like the liver. Not that it had mattered because his insistence that cancer treatment had advanced by leaps and bounds the past few years hadn’t swayed Jimmy’s mind. Because Wilson had still stood in his doorway and told House he wasn’t doing any more chemo. It had been kind of ridiculous how soft and attractive Jimmy had looked, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of those starched slacks and his shoulders rounded with the acceptance of five months.

But it hadn’t really mattered because any willingness to be what Jimmy needed had been short lived because once Wilson had decided to forgo any additional treatment, all bets had been off. Because House had pulled every tried and true bargaining trick, dirty or otherwise, to get Wilson to bend to his wishes. As if a half-assed chemo session in House’s living room had been on par with the care the younger man would have received at Princeton-Plainsboro. House had held Wilson in his arms as the oncologist nearly died from an untested, unapproved treatment, and _still_ Jimmy had decided to forgo further treatment. So, to that effect House had decided that it didn’t matter if he pulled out sacred, cherished memories and laid them at Jimmy’s feet in an attempt to manipulate the younger man to continue said treatment. It didn’t matter that House could see the betrayal that settled in Wilson’s features, because he’d almost had the other doctor; if he’d just pushed a little more, Jimmy would’ve given in. He _always_ gave in. And just that once, House had told the younger man the truth – that he _needed_ Jimmy, that he wanted Wilson around as long as possible, that he didn’t know what he’d do without the younger man. House tried to string those sentences together with _I love you_ as clearly as he could without actually saying those damning words. But then Wilson had scoffed and told House that his dying was about _him._ And Wilson had left him at that table, with a half-drank bottle of wine and the remnants of a dinner that was more romantic than it had any right being.

Just a couple of months since the sight, the sound of Wilson breaking down in the car had shaken House to his core. Because for all the years Jimmy had been Head of Oncology, for all the children swept away and lives cut far too short, Wilson had always been tentatively optimistic. The younger man had held out for better treatments, for life changing trials, for miracles. But those tears slipping down the younger man’s cheeks, with his head dropped back in defeat, had been anything but optimistic. Jimmy’s voice had been a broken thing as he begged House – told him that Jimmy needed to know he was there, needed to know that his life had been worthwhile. Needed to know that House loved him. And how easy it would have been to give in to Wilson in that moment.

Because there Wilson was, a broken man choosing to die with dignity rather than have his life pulled thin and worn with treatments that wouldn’t ever really work. And how could House fault him for that?

It would have been so easy to lean into the car, take Jimmy’s hand in his, and give him everything the younger man was asking for. But instead, House had gone for broke. He had looked Wilson in the eye and made treatment a stipulation for him to give the younger man what he so desperately needed. He had left Jimmy in that parking lot, dark eyes made darker with the tears gathering there. Because instead, he had returned home, sat himself heavily on his sofa and poured himself a drink. And then another. And then a third. Drink after drink after drink until the bottle turned itself up as pitifully empty, and House found he didn’t have the heart to get up and retrieve another bottle from the kitchen. So, he had sat there and stewed in his own self-pity and drunkenness, watching shadows pull languidly across the floor. Because the entire apartment was some sort of shrine to his memories with Wilson, cinching his chest up tight and making him wish desperately for another drink until he had finally pushed himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily into the kitchen.

The rest of the night had been a black-out blur, until House had woken in his sleep rumpled bed with his face tucked into the pillows and cursing the existence of the sun. He had called out and spent the day with thoughts much too loud and way too heavy, because acceptance had never been second nature to him. It had always needed to be dragged out of him, with heavy belt blows and with situations beyond his control no matter how hard he tried and apparently with dying best friends. He had plunked away at the piano for the better part of the day, pulling half-remembered melodies and unwelcomed memories of him tangled up with Wilson to the fore of his mind.

House had tried to do so much good in his life; he had saved the unsavable. How was it fair that the best part of it was being unceremoniously cut out way too soon? He had felt hollowed out, scraped clean inside at the thought of going it without Wilson. And he had stewed over so many missed opportunities. Because waking up stuck to younger man had been some of the best mornings he’d ever had. Because Jimmy’s kisses were essentially a religion in their own right. Because Wilson exuded a sense of home that House couldn’t pull himself out of, didn’t want to. He had thought of memories of Jimmy making him breakfast in bed and lazy mornings together, of shitty movies and worse pizza, of skunked beer and being too drunk to give a damn. Memories of Wilson pressing soft kisses to his skin, of strong fingers working the ache in his thigh loose from bone, of their legs tangled together as their breathing fell into the same rhythm. Memories of the younger man huffing out a laugh even as he rolled his eyes, of quiet Christmases and homemade birthday cakes and lazy weekends, of languid kisses with lips tipped up in soft smiles. He had blinked his tears away as those memories offered themselves up for sacrifice, fell as penance for not having done enough, been enough.

House’s heart had squeezed and ached because he’d never have that again.

His fingers had crunched down on the keys of his piano, pulling an undignified sound from the hulking instrument’s strings. House had tilted down, pressed his forehead to the piano’s lip, and squinted his eyes shut because it _wasn’t fair_. And it had just been his rotten luck that of all the alternative universes, House had managed to be stuck in one where Jimmy died.

And then Wilson’s voice had pushed through the door, calling his name from the other side instead of using his key. There had been something tentative there, precious, and House could quite clearly imagine Jimmy’s forehead pressed against it, his hand spread on the wood as if in entreaty. The thought had pulled him to his feet, dragged him by his heartstrings closer to the door. His fingers had brushed against the doorknob gingerly because it was so hard to keep Wilson out. There was something warm and cloying about the younger man, something a bit like _home_ , and House was so weak for it. All he wanted was to sink into it, to sink into _Jimmy_.

“I’m ready to start the next round of chemo,” Jimmy had practically whispered through the door, and House had pressed his forehead against the wood. He had imagined Wilson was just on the other side, in the same position. He had squinted his eyes against the burn of tears, because those words felt like the sweetest win, until his mind offered up what that meant. Quicksilver, mercurial thoughts that steeped out into the wrinkles of his brain, making his muscles weak and numbing his extremities and dampening his senses. Because he saw Jimmy, with his skin washed out under fluorescent lighting where he was tucked into sheets much too white but fighting to offer a wan smile that pulled Wilson’s mouth tight. He saw IVs and nausea meds and feeding tubes. He saw tired eyes and shaky hands and a bare scalp. And he saw months pulled long and thin into a year, maybe two while Jimmy fought well past exhaustion, dug down into that hurt bravely all for someone other than himself.

He had jerked the door open, blinking away those tears. “Why,” House had demanded sharply because he needed Jimmy to say it. To admit what there was between them. That it was more than just friendship.

But Wilson had just shrugged, mouth twisting up wanly in concession. “Because you need me. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing anymore.”

And again, there had been those thoughts. There had been those mental images of Jimmy putting himself through the wringer all for _House_ , for their friendship and maybe something a little more than that. And House couldn’t let that stand, because love was sacrifice, wasn’t it? Putting the other person first, cherishing them and their wishes above all else. Putting their happiness, their _life_ first. And how was confining Jimmy to a hospital bed while poison pumped its way merrily into his chest putting the younger man first?

House had sucked in a breath, exhaled his response. “No.” He had closed his eyes against that word. How could two letters, one syllable hurt so fucking much? “You’re the only one I listen to. And the last couple of days, I didn’t. I almost killed my patient.” He had seen the way Wilson’s expression softened at the edges, as if the oncologist had known where the conversation had been heading. “So, I think it’s time for me to accept that you’re just smarter than I am.”

There it had been.

His acceptance. With his heart in his throat but acceptance, nonetheless.

Jimmy had stepped closer, swaying toward him marginally. And no way in fuck was _five months_ anywhere close to enough time when all House wanted was to spend eternity with Wilson. Five months would _never_ be enough. Not when House wanted to spend five _lifetimes_ with the younger man. Maybe five _thousand_ years would be enough, but definitely not five _months_. But it was something, and well. Something was better than nothing.

But then he had wrecked the MRI, completely trashed a several _thousand_ -dollar piece of equipment and had caught the fast track back to jail. House had practically begged Wilson to take the blame, but it had been more than that. Because it had been a plea for forgiveness, for absolution, for the chance to spend just five more months with the younger man. Because Foreman would have forgiven Jimmy, would have brushed the act away as the fuckup of an angry, dying man, would have understood to some twisted degree. But Jimmy had left the blame solely on House’s shoulders, had left him to being doled out the remainder of his punishment. And that had just been a precursor to how the rest of his life would be spent, wasn’t it? He’d no longer be able to expect Wilson to sweep in and save him. And funny how something that was seemingly so trivial had slammed the whole thing into clarity for him. Because it wasn’t even that he would have to take responsibility. Because in the grand scheme of things, six months was nothing. No, it had been the other thing.

He would spend the last five months of James Wilson’s life in jail _._

And what a spectacular fuckup on his end that was.

So, House had done the only thing he could think of. He had run. And somehow, at the end of it, he had found himself in a hollowed-out shell of a warehouse, watching some guy shoot up meth and wondering how his life had become _that_. Just another blessing from that probably there, fucked up God, letting him know that the house always won in the end. And when the place had caught fire, House had laid there, pitifully and entirely willing to just let the flames swallow him whole. He had resigned himself to dying there on that dirty floor, with an OD’ed meth head not ten feet from him. Somehow, it had seemed fitting that his life would end like that. Just like it had seemed fitting that Amber would be his Angel of Death, that she would come to reap his soul as she held his hand and escorted him to Hell. Only, she had proved to be the motivation he needed for a particular stroke of genius.

His funeral had been so much _more_ than he had ever expected. House had never been a particularly _nice_ man, so he had always kind of just figured his funeral would be an empty event. Wilson and his mother, of course, would go; maybe the ducklings. Cuddy and Stacy were a tossup. But the funeral home had been surprisingly full as person after person stood to speak on his behalf. And he had been oddly touched, even as he listened to the same empty lies spoken again and again. His chest had cinched as Wilson got to his feet and approached the podium; the younger man having been given the place of honor as the last person to speak. What Wilson had had to say about him would have, arguably, been what most people remembered about House. And House had seen it so clearly the moment Jimmy had broken down into all those festering hurts laid upon the oncologist from years of friendship with him. From years of being pushed to the side and made unimportant and overlooked in House’s pursuit for answers or a good time. His cinched tight chest had cleaved open with those words because the betrayal that Wilson felt was so apparent that it had made House wonder just how blind he’d been.

And how _the fuck_ had it only been a couple of weeks ago, since Jimmy had balanced the bike between his legs so naturally and looked anywhere _but_ at House, had started the heartbreaking question of when the cancer started to get really bad with that soft, wounded tone. Wilson had looked so _good_ , so right in his leather jacket over that stupidly preppy McGill sweatshirt that was worn thin at the elbows. That rasp of stubble along Jimmy’s jaw, up on his cheeks had been a delightful revelation, and House had wanted to feel it catching on his skin, his own messy feelings aside. Which hadn’t really been something he should have been thinking about as his best friend expressed hinted at concerns of dying.

“Cancer’s boring,” House had finally rasped out, trying so hard for nonchalant. But the look Jimmy had given him, the lines in his face smoothing away as he really _looked_ at House, had twisted his heart so fucking hard in his chest it had rendered him breathless. Because House had already thought about that, had read up on it. Admittedly, he’d already looked into voodoo and healing crystals, into acupuncture and bone broth diets and cannabis. He had worked his way through the medical dictionary trying to prepare himself for whatever _really bad_ meant.

But he knew.

Because _medically_ it meant coughing and shortness of breath; it meant Jimmy’s chest feeling squeezed and tight; it meant dizziness and headaches and double vision; it meant loss of appetite and weight loss. And _that_ , to some degree, he could handle. He was a medical professional, or rather used to be. He had seen the ravages of cancer, had watched Jimmy wage that battle for countless patients. Just like House had watched the way it wore the younger man down when he lost that fight. And Wilson always lost that fight. He’d already seen the way it sharpened Wilson’s edges and dug gouges into the features of his face, his shoulders as if taking its pound of flesh from both cue-ball patients and their champion, James Wilson. What was a little more?

House knew what _really bad_ meant from a medical standpoint. What he didn’t know was how he would survive it, how he would stand stoic and firm for the younger man. Because Jimmy had almost died on his couch for Chrissake. He’d leaned up against House, burning hot and clammy with sweat and sick. Because House had smoothed Jimmy’s hair back from his face, fed him drugs to lessen the pain, had just tried to weather the storm. And that was _with_ chemo, with Jimmy actively fighting. But Wilson didn’t want to fight. Well, to be fair, the younger man had been fighting that fight for the past eighteen years, just for other people.

Just the once for himself had been enough.

And for all the plans they had been making before House’s near arrest, the road trip had been pretty aimless. Just two men riding southward. Could have just as easily been them having some weird midlife crisis or a late-life sexual awakening or anything else not quite as life changing. A life event that didn’t necessarily have to have the _final ride into the sunset_ feel, like they were Butch and Sundance or something. Thankfully, there wasn’t a barrage of bullets waiting on the other side of said sunset. Just the slow, creeping decay of cancer.

Honestly, House would have almost preferred the bullets.

While it should have taken roughly three hours to get to Baltimore, they had managed to stick to two lane country roads, following age-worn stone fences and flowering crabapples. The whole thing had wound up being more romantic than it had any right to be. Way more romantic than two dudes driving through the countryside in leathers had warranted. Under covered bridges and past horse farms and through quaint little towns. And it had almost been easy to believe that there was _nothing_ utterly life-shattering lingering just under the brittle surface.

How House wished it had just been a mundane, inconsequential ride in the country and not the beginning of some sort of last hurrah of Greg House and James Wilson.

But of course, that’d been a couple weeks ago, a whole _lifetime_ ago because they were just Jimmy and Greg anymore. Not that anyone asked as they pushed their way into a mom-and-pop diner on the outskirts of Annapolis. Personally, House wished they were a little further south given how long they’d been on the road, but _apparently_ riding a motorcycle for several hours a day when one member of the party had a bum leg and the other had a tumor made for slower going. He was still hoping that they’d make it out of Maryland by the end of the day, though House wasn’t entirely sure how stoked about _Virginia_ he was.

“Did you know freedom exists in schoolbooks; did you know madmen are running our prisons,” House huffed out as he threw himself down in the booth, dropping his helmet down between his hip and the wall. He looked up at Wilson expectantly as the younger man folded himself down on the other side, setting his helmet up in the windowsill. “Within a jail; within a gaol; within a white free Protestant maelstrom.” House picked up the menu and started flipping through laminated pages. “We’re perched headlong on the edge of boredom; we’re reaching for death on the end of a candle. We’re trying for something that’s already found us.”

Alright, so _maybe_ he had started reading up on Morrison’s poetry. And House _might_ have tucked that worn paperback into the front pocket of his backpack when he’d thrown his life away and taken to pulling it out sometime about sunrise when his thoughts about Jimmy dying got too loud. Because his mind liked to pull up the cherished memory of Wilson in his boxers and House’s tee, reciting the final verse of _Newborn Awakening_ while he stole bites of House’s pancakes. _That_ was how House wanted to remember the younger man; _that_ was the moment where House wanted to spend all his days on repeat liked some sort of fucked up _Groundhog Day_. Listening to Jimmy quietly recite those words again and again, while tucked in against House’s side and with kisses tasting like maple syrup.

“How touching,” Wilson quipped as he unfolded his menu. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Throwing my whole life, or what’s left of it, away to ride off into the sunset with you for what? A bit of freedom?” He gave House a wan smile before he looked up at the waitress approaching their table with a classic panty peeler smile. And House could see her preen, cheeks flushing as she tugged at her apron and sidled up to their table.

“Hi there, folks. I’m Natalie, and I’ll be your server today,” she trilled as she pulled her pen out of her bun. “Do you need a couple more moments, or are we ready to order,” she chirped pretty much directly to Wilson, already pulling her order pad out of her apron with a bright smile.

Jimmy flashed her a smile as he folded his menu up and tucked it behind the napkin holder. “Can we get a couple cups of coffee, please? And a slice of that pecan pie with vanilla ice cream on the side?” She flashed them a smile, her gaze darting from Jimmy to House and back again before she headed off with a nod. House slumped in the booth with a sigh, bouncing his right leg as he flexed his calf to try and work free some of the ache from riding for hours on end.

“Is that pie for me,” House quipped, fussing with the folds of his napkin around his fork and knife. “And that pie for you?” He jerked his head marginally toward the waitress.

Wilson gave him a sharp look. “She’s like half my age, Greg,” he huffed in exasperation.

“And Grace was dying,” he snapped out. “Not to mention that Sam fucked you in more ways than one.”

The younger man huffed out a sigh, his eyes rolling. “Yes, House. I ordered you pie and ice cream as a bribe to let me bed a local in the diner bathroom,” the younger man hissed quietly. Wilson turned and smiled beguilingly at Natalie as she stepped up to the table and placed ceramic cups down, filling them with faded out liquid that made House grimace internally.

“They’re heating the pie up for you; I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.” She curled a hand around her hip, holding the coffee pot up near her nametag. “Is there anything else I can get you fellas right now?”

“We’re good,” House snarked, stretching out his right leg as he watched Natalie sashay away. He felt where the side of his calf pressed against Jimmy’s leg. He could feel the heat of the younger man’s skin through the denim, and House fought down the urge to rub his boot firmly against Wilson’s thigh. “She’s cute,” he quipped, scrunching his nose playfully and earning himself an eyeroll.

“I’m sick, Greg. Not exactly on the prowl for my next wife.”

“That’s a shame. She looks like she would be amendable to being barefoot and pregnant all the time.”

Jimmy sipped his coffee pensively. “I don’t think that we’re either rural enough _or_ south enough for that mindset,” the younger man quipped. It pushed a laugh from House’s chest, because even then it was easy to joke with Wilson. To just sink into that easy camaraderie. He tried to tell himself their friendship was enough. What did it matter if House wanted something more? Jimmy was dying. He could give the younger man what he asked for.

He had just opened his mouth to respond when Natalie stepped up to the table, depositing the slice of pie and bowl of ice cream in front of Wilson. The younger man smiled up at her in thanks. “Do you guys need anything else right now,” she asked chirpily as she wiped her hands on her apron.

House leaned back in the booth. How was it fair that he was _still_ having to shoo women away from Jimmy? “We’re good, thanks,” he coughed out snidely, lifting his cup as he looked out the window in clear dismissal. “Maybe we should have gotten an RV,” he teased Wilson as he watched a rather rotund, elderly couple in bright patterns climb out of one of the hulking vehicles. He shot the ex-oncologist a sharp smile. “Nothing screams _old married couple_ like an RV.” Unfortunately, Natalie had already moved away but it was still worth it as Jimmy scoffed out a sound suspiciously close to a laugh while he rolled his eyes.

“I’m not sure I would trust you with an RV,” Jimmy muttered as he lifted his coffee for a sip. “I’m not even sure I would trust _me_ with an RV! That whole thing with the box truck while moving into the condo was bad enough.”

He snorted out a laugh. Because the whole _adventure_ with the box truck had been Jimmy swinging out too widely and clipping a parked car, shearing off a shitty little Toyota’s driver side mirror. And after cussing for about thirty seconds while stalled out in the middle of the road, Wilson had finally pulled into a parking lot and left his card underneath the car’s windshield wiper like a respectable adult. Needless to say, House had given him shit about it the rest of the drive to the new apartment.

“I think you handled that whole situation admirably,” House teased from around the rim of his coffee cup. He watched Jimmy scrape off a little of the scoop of ice cream, his tongue darting out to lick obscenely along the curve. “Like a proper Boy Scout.”

Jimmy gave him a sharp look. “I was being polite.”

“The car was _shit_ ,” House stressed. “It’s not like it was a Mercedes, hot off the line.” The younger man huffed out a noncommittal noise as he picked at the sugar glazed pecans. House leaned across the table and dug his fork prongs down against the very tip of the slice. “But at least it keeps things interesting.”

“Why’d you do it,” Wilson finally asked with a huff of a laugh, pushing the plate of pie over to House before his palms curled around his coffee mug. “Why’d you do this. Running off with me.”

Which that was something House had thought about a _lot_ since they had started their road trip. More than he would ever admit to. And probably less than Wilson deserved. Because _Jimmy_ had been the one to stand in his doorway, to tell House in that confident but worn-down tone that he would give treatment a try. Wilson had been the one to say that maybe House needing him wasn’t such a bad thing as if the younger man completely disregarding his personal wishes to spare House’s feelings wasn’t obscenely insane. But Wilson had always been better at being selfless, and House had always been so fucking _greedy_. Because he had taken and taken and taken and _still_ held his hands out for more. He had somehow placed himself, his needs on some sort of pedestal, like he had expected Jimmy to just sink to his knees in worship.

House blinked dumbly at the younger man; suddenly painfully aware he was supposed to be saying something. Anything. He huffed out a sigh and reached for his coffee, taking comfort in the way the ceramic scalded his palms as he cupped the mug, his lips as he took a sip.

“Funnily enough, I was avoiding jailtime. It’s a little unpleasant,” he quipped, more breathily than he would have liked but it earned him a soft laugh from Wilson. That sound was somehow on par with the ringing of a bell, as if it were able to designate wings to some angel. Which was absolutely preposterous and entirely true, House was sure of it.

Wilson shook his head as he dipped down to sip at his coffee before picking up his fork and cutting a small bite off the slice of pie. “Right. Because trading lives with some tweaker in a burning warehouse just to die _only_ to avoid jailtime sounds so reasonable when I say it out loud.”

He stared at the younger man, watching as Wilson’s teeth scraped against the prongs of his fork, his tongue darting out to swipe away any lingering crumbs of crust. “My best friend needed me,” House said softly, completely serious. His chest cinched so fucking tight, as he kept staring at Jimmy, where the softening sunlight had fallen through grimy diner windows to catch in his hair. And there must have been something in his tone because Wilson looked up at him, slowly blinking as if his brain was trying to fully comprehend the situation. Which it probably was. Because House could so _clearly_ hear what Jimmy had to say at what had been his funeral, had heard the stripped bare hurt in the younger man’s tone, the tears clumping there at the edges of sonances. Because while Jimmy had started in with the same empty words of praise about him, Wilson had grown a spine and gritted his teeth, let himself fall down into his own hurt for once. And those words, Jimmy’s words, had cleaved House down to bone as the younger man told their friends and family and colleagues that House had died _selfishly;_ had died numb with drugs and completely without a thought of anyone else. And the _betrayal_ in Wilson’s tone had been a bright, brittle thing as he blinked away tears. And even if House hadn’t _wanted_ to hear it, he had heard it all the same. Because he hadn’t just betrayed the people who cared about him; he had betrayed one James Wilson, his oldest and dearest friend. The person he cared most about.

And never had he felt so small in that moment, so worthless. If he had had any doubts about his plan, in that moment Jimmy had swept them all away. House would have gladly given up a hundred lives, a million if he needed to, just to keep Wilson from ever feeling that way again.

“How’d you do it,” Wilson finally asked, jaw set and eyes mildly suspicious as if he still expected it all to be a lie. House cut a big bite off the pie, shoving it past his teeth.

“I snuck into Foreman’s office,” he said with a shrug. “Insurance records have this handy feature of containing _everything,_ including dental records. Same thing with employee records; handy dandy one stop shop for all your illicit needs.” It was enough, he knew, because he could see the realization in Wilson’s gaze, even as the ex-oncologist’s brow furrowed.

“So, you just threw your life away,” Wilson scoffed angrily, as if he took personal affront at House’s actions. And he probably did, because Jimmy had been given an expiration date. “It was six months in jail, Greg. That hardly seems like a death sentence.”

House wondered if Jimmy could hear himself, could hear those words. Because House couldn’t hear them so much as fucking _feel_ them as they rattled into his chest and shook him apart. He gritted his teeth against that hurt, because of course Wilson would refuse to look at the bigger picture of things. Namely that Jimmy had only been given five months to live; had overlooked that going back to jail meant House missing out on those precious moments with not only his best friend but the man that House had come to desperately love.

He placed his mug down on the table a bit harder than necessary, fingers clenched to hide the shakes that had taken up in the joints of his fingers. “Not my death sentence, Jimmy,” House whispered hoarsely, swallowing roughly at the hurt that had clotted in his throat.

Wilson’s smile was a small, crippled thing where it twisted at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe this is a mistake, Greg. Maybe . . . maybe we should have just treated this whole thing like ripping a Band-Aid off or whatever,” Jimmy muttered, decidedly looking anywhere but at House. “Maybe I should have just gone off on my own or something.” Wilson shrugged, shaking his head just slightly as he tapped a finger against his coffee cup.

His palm smacked sharply into the table, rattling their cups and sending silverware scattering. The bright sound drew some curious looks, but House couldn’t be bothered to give a good goddamn as he leaned forward, teeth gritted and bared. “Dammit Jimmy. I _wasn’t_ just blowing smoke up your ass when I told you that I need you, when I told you that I want you around as long as possible. That I have _no fucking idea_ what I’m gonna do without you.” His breath was ragged as it wheezed out from behind clenched teeth, like some hurt animal cornered and panicked. “You going off to die by yourself is literally the last thing I need to worry about.”

“You threw your life away for this Greg,” Jimmy hissed back, leaning forward and looking unfairly attractive with that stubborn glint in his eyes. “For five months,” he gritted out. His fingers curled around his coffee cup, and for a moment, House wondered if the younger man was toying with the idea of throwing the cooled liquid in his face. He was certain there was still enough heat in that shitty diner coffee to scald him to some degree.

It would have been so easy for House to just _say it_ right then. To just tell Wilson that he loved Jimmy. But saying those words required something braver than House possessed he was pretty sure. Because the last time he’d told Jimmy those words, had muttered them sincerely, Wilson had just nodded and prescribed him more pain meds. How was he expected to take that leap of faith once more, to just _assume_ that after all they'd been through that Wilson would finally, _finally_ , believe him?

Natalie sidled up to their table with a bright smile and a coffee pot. “More coffee,” she asked, giving the urn a little wiggle, the dark liquid sloshing against the stained glass. And House felt a bit conflicted, because on the one hand of _course_ Natalie would choose then to bring them more shitty coffee, but on the other hand at least House didn’t have to explain his actions.

Wilson gave her a wan smile and pushed his mug a little closer. “Just a top up, please.” Jimmy waited until Natalie had moved on before giving House a look. “For five fucking months? You gave up everything for what? Five months on a motorcycle, suffering through road dust and shitty weather and leg pain.” Wilson spun his mug around in a tight circle. “Just so you can watch me die?”

House sucked in a sharp breath as he resisted the urge to reach across the table and take Wilson’s hand in his. Hearing those words aloud was worlds apart from letting them loiter unspoken between them. And he’d never been good at vulnerability, but he figured he could at least try. “Do you remember coming back early from your second honeymoon,” House finally asked, gripping his coffee cup and staring down into that muddy liquid.

He could feel the younger man glance up at him, but neither of them commented on those memories, because mentioning it had been enough. Because Jimmy had rushed back state-side, honeymoon and new bride be damned, when he had learned about the infarction, about the surgery. They both remembered it, painstakingly vivid and all-too fresh regardless of the years that had passed. Stacy had gone and left House a cripple, dropped him in the bewildered lap of one James Wilson. And while she could claim having his best interests at heart, she had chosen the middle ground. Which, at least Jimmy would have gone for broke and amputated the entire leg, House’s wishes be damned. And admittedly if his whole damn leg had been cut off, it probably wouldn’t still hurt like it did.

But that moment, that single selfless act of Wilson coming home for him, had cemented them together. Because that had been the moment that Jimmy had shown House he meant something.

“And that’s why,” Wilson said softly, as if that whole statement summed up their friendship.

Which, that wasn’t entirely true was it, because it had also been a _million_ moments in between a long ago, blue-smoke atmosphere of a Louisiana bar and a truck stop diner just outside Annapolis with cracked vinyl booths and stained Formica tabletops. Because it had been the slow, creeping curl of the smile Jimmy got when he’d had too much to drink, the way he tucked himself against House affectionately. It had been the years that the younger man spent suffering through House barging into his office, his home with barely contained amusement. It had been years of pranks and inside jokes, and late nights with cold beer and greasy pizza and sloppy kisses. It had been thousands of Vicodin prescriptions, sharp-edged memories, and them against the world like some sort of masculine Thelma and Louise.

House hummed out a noncommittal sound, picking at a chip in the handle of his cup with his thumbnail. “My best friend needed me,” he repeated softer, hoping Wilson could hear what was just under that brittle veneer. Because for the last twenty or so years, House had been needing Jimmy. It had _always_ been Jimmy. And just that once, Wilson needed him in a pretty spectacularly big way. Not in the way that made the younger man feel like it was acceptable for him to occasionally be a manipulative asshole or selfish or borderline irrationally angry over things that were of little consequence. No. Jimmy needed House to be there while he whittled away to nothing.

It would break his heart to do it, but House figured he owed it to Wilson after about eighteen years of being a pretty shitty friend.

Wilson just blinked at him before he pulled the creased paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded the map. It had been something he had picked up at a gas station a couple of stops back, even though they hadn’t really needed it because they were just heading south. As long as they kept picking odd numbered highways, they’d be fine. But Jimmy had insisted, which House suspected was more of a desire to keep tabs of where they’d been, instead of picking routes for where they were going. Which seemed substantiated as Wilson picked up Natalie’s pen from where it held the check down and clicked it a few times. He tapped the tip on Annapolis. “So, where are we headed?” Wilson glanced up at him expectantly, before moving the pen downward. “Are we going south? Or west?”

“What’s wrong with east,” House snarked, because their moment had passed, and it was easier to joke with Wilson than to be infinitely serious. So, he reached out and placed his fingertip on the pen, pushing it eastward into the coastline of the Chesapeake Bay, past the second bit of Maryland, through Delaware and out into the open space of the Atlantic.

“Oh, right. I forgot that the bikes actually have an amphibious dual setting. Do you think that’s like a hidden button in the handlebar that we have to push in order to deploy? Or do you think that when the water gets up to the gas tank, it just happens automatically?”

House purposefully set his coffee cup on the map, leaving a ring of brown as he pulled his finger down the coast to Florida. “How about,” he started. “Instead, I take you to Italy?”

“Italy,” Wilson parroted, eyebrows twitching upward with amusement.

“Yep. Monticello, Venice, even Naples.” He tugged the pen from Wilson’s fingers and circled the three cities. And honestly, he would have liked to take Jimmy somewhere picturesque and romantic for his final days, but House was kind of working on a budget, as well as with limited personal identification.

Florida was doable. Italy was not.

“How romantic,” the younger man quipped, leaning back in the booth with a teasing smile. “But I burn. And I’m not entirely sure that lobster red is how I want to meet my maker.” Wilson folded his arms over his chest. “Besides, isn’t Florida considered like Heaven’s waiting room?”

He scoffed. “I didn’t think Jews believed in Heaven.” House reared back in his seat, hand to his chest as if shocked. “Why Jimmy, loving Christmas _and_ talking about Heaven? What would your mother say!”

Wilson rolled his eyes as he fished his wallet out. “She’d remind me bacon is a sin, tell me that there’s a temple just fifteen miles north of here, and ask if I’ve spoken with Michael since I was diagnosed,” he huffed out as the younger man thumbed through the bills there. House was so grateful that they’d mutually decided that Wilson should be in charge of their money, because all he could think about was that there was a riverboat casino in Indiana that was supposed to be pretty awesome. “Besides, in Judaism its _olam ha-ba_ , not Heaven,” Jimmy said as he pulled out enough to cover their coffees and the half-eaten pie, to leave a generous tip. “I do think we should head to Walmart though before we continue on this trip. Put some of this cash in those prepaid credit cards or something.” Wilson held his wallet out to House, the money slot gaping at him where it was stuffed with bills. “Some cash is good, but it feels excessive to be carrying this in my wallet.”

“Unless we go to a strip club,” House quipped.

“I’m not sticking hundred-dollar notes in a G-string,” Jimmy grumbled with an eyeroll as he climbed out of the booth. With a grin, House followed Wilson toward the door, mentally congratulating himself on picking those jeans because Jimmy’s ass looked pretty spectacular in that denim.

“I’ll stick hundred-dollar notes in _your_ G-string,” he huffed lowly, earning House a sharp look over Wilson’s shoulder as they passed Natalie on their way out the door. Her cheeks flushed, and House counted it as a win that he had managed to embarrass two people at the cost of one.

House watched as Wilson swung his leg over the bike, as the younger man settled into the bike’s seat heavily. He crammed the helmet on his head and followed suit. He hadn’t really thought of it, but Jimmy had left his whole world behind. At least House’s mom had just been under the assumption that he’d died in a warehouse, full of drugs and not a care in the world. But Wilson’s parents hadn’t been conned into believing that their son had died. And Jimmy was a good kid, calling his parents every other week just to talk, sending money home just because. House was pretty sure since they’d started off on their road trip, Wilson hadn’t been in touch with his parents, with his brother. He watched as Jimmy brought his foot down roughly on the kick starter, the bike rumbling to life throatily. House followed suit and made a mental promise to himself to ask about all those things by the time they stopped in Virginia.

Conveniently there was a Walmart in Bowie, which happened to be almost in the middle of the hour-long ride from that little diner to Washington DC. House had to bite back his smile, because Wilson always liked it when their travel plans lined up like that. They stopped briefly, heading inside to trade half a million for a handful of plastic cards. The cashier had made awkward, nervous jokes about them robbing a bank, and then had had the audacity to look scandalized when House had mockingly called Wilson a chintzy Jew. Jimmy had just rolled his eyes as he tucked the newly filled cards neatly into his wallet, which had fit once more in Wilson’s jeans. The younger man had just dragged him from the store in the end.

Slowly, as they continued southwestward, the streets stuffed themselves with languidly moving vehicles and rushed foot traffic. The air filled with that big city sound of too many voices speaking loudly, vying to be heard over honking car horns and the rumble of buses. House definitely hadn’t missed that hustle and bustle, but he kept reminding himself they were only passing through. Soon enough, Washington DC would give way to Virginia, which for the most part was greener. Well, from what he remembered when his dad had been stationed in Arlington, but that had been close to forty years ago, and a lot could change in forty years.

The welcome sign to Virginia was a massive black thing, broken up with a red heart. House barely made out _Virginia is for lovers_ as they blew past. Which that was a sharply ironic phrase, because since starting that whole voyage south they’d managed to _not_ fall into bed together, which was something that ate at House viciously. Because it was yet another cruel twist of fate that he found himself sharing tiny hotel rooms with Jimmy, barely three feet between the beds, and House was going through one of the worst dry spells of his life. But he had promised himself that he would be what Jimmy needed him to be, which meant that they went at Wilson’s pace. House could overlook the near overwhelming urge to crawl into bed with the younger man, because Jimmy was _dying_ and needed House to just be there for him.

As they pulled off at the first rest stop, House slumped against the motorcycle before following Wilson to a picnic table. Admittedly, it felt good to stretch his legs as he ambled across the browning grass. And who’s idea had it been for them to head along the coast during summer break? Because the rest stop’s parking lot was filled with obnoxiously loud cars filled with teenagers whooping and hollering. The grassy, shady areas were filled with young children running around, screaming. House grimaced as he sat across the table from Wilson.

“Couldn’t have picked a better time of year for this whole cancer thing, could you have,” House teased.

“I’m sorry that my dying inconveniences you,” Jimmy quipped back, his lips pulling into a wan smile at the corners.

Somehow, it was getting easier to say those words, to joke about it. House wagered it was all part of the acceptance aspect of the Five Stages. They were _accepting_ what was coming, facing it head on, eyes open. Like that made it any less terrifying, any less crippling. Again, he fought the urge to reach across the table and take Jimmy’s hand.

“Besides, you were the one who decided we should go to Florida, of all places,” Wilson huffed out, folding his arms on the tabletop. He groaned as he stretched his back, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. “I mean, really? Florida?” He laughed a little.

“Florida is a nice place to visit,” House grumbled.

“Yeah, to _visit_. Not to _die._ ”

“Well, not to _live_ ,” House countered. “Must be a pretty good place to die, since all those old people go there _specifically_ to do so.”

Jimmy gave him a sharp look. “You’re insufferable, you know.”

“You like it,” he quipped, leaning forward to leer at the younger man.

Wilson huffed out an almost laugh before he pushed himself to his feet. “Not quite as much as you think I do,” Jimmy teased him. He pulled the map out of his jacket pocket and spread it on the table. “I say that we head to Woodbridge and call it a night. I mean we _did_ get to Virginia.”

“How about,” House started, shifting forward to tap further down on the map. “We get to Portsmouth and call it a night. We can _stop_ in Woodbridge. I’ll even go get us some of those shitty pamphlets the Tourism Department circulates about things to do in Virginia.” He got to his feet and gave the younger man an expectant look.

“Maybe we should stop in at like an internet café or something, plan out places to stay or things to do.”

“Or maybe we can just keep winging it.” Which earned House a dirty look, because even dying Wilson still liked to plan things out. He flashed Jimmy a smile. “I’m gonna go get some of those pamphlets.”

“And a Sprite,” Wilson called after him. “Maybe a Snickers.”

He stood in the concrete shelter, feeding bills into the snack machine. House couldn’t keep his smile from surfacing briefly as he punched in the numbers for a Snickers bar; House watched the candy bar tumble downward toward the shelf. Tucking the candy into the pocket of his jacket, House ambled onward toward the drink machines as he pulled a couple more bills from his wallet. The Sprite’s fall managed to dent the can just slightly, not that House could be bothered to care as he stood awkwardly in front of the big display of pamphlets.

Mount Vernon. The headstones like white teeth scattered in pristine lines in Arlington. Monticello. The troops erecting the flag at Iwo Jima. The cannons of Yorktown. Agecroft. The Hermitage. Endview. Aberdeen Gardens. Bacon’s Castle.

House huffed out a sigh, running his fingertips along the edges of stiff paper.

Because all of that sounded good, but kind of boring. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to _learn_ things. He wanted to watch Jimmy lounge on the beach, out there amid wind-swept dunes and lazy in the sunshine. He wanted to see Wilson with Assateague’s lighthouse as a backdrop. He wanted the younger man’s cheeks pinkened with wine at the Valhalla Vineyards, lips parted in a carefree laugh.

His chest cinched. Because all of those things sounded so pitifully like _goodbye_ and it hurt. It hurt way more than House would have ever thought. He sucked in a grounding breath, grabbed a handful of whatever pamphlets he came across first before heading back to their picnic table. And Jesus, that was a good thing to come back to, wasn’t it? Jimmy leaned back against the table, with his head tipped back and his eyes closed to the sunshine. An almost smile toyed at the corners of his lips, like the screaming kids and the highway road noise was the most perfect thing the younger man had ever experienced.

“Have you called your parents,” House asked as he put the Sprite down, already fishing ibuprofen out of his pocket. He threw the pamphlets down before digging for the Snickers as he folded down onto the bench. Jimmy’s eyes opened lazily as the younger man turned toward him as House popped the tab on the can and swallowed down a few pills.

“I wrote them a letter,” Wilson huffed out, reaching for the Sprite. House held the can out of Jimmy’s reach as he blinked at the younger man.

“You wrote them a letter,” he parroted, his tone edged in disbelief. Because that seemed like the kind of cowardly bullshit that House would have pulled. He leaned forward, giving Wilson a look. “You wrote your mother a letter telling her you were dying,” House stressed again. Wilson sucked in a grounding breath before he snatched up the Snickers, ripped the wrapper open, and took a big bite of the kind of smooshed, slightly melted candy bar.

“Yes.”

House must have been giving Jimmy a look because the younger man sighed out a heavy breath, his shoulders drifting downward with it.

“It’s not up for discussion,” Wilson started out, looking out over the parking lot. House followed his gaze to where a young mother was corralling three rumbustious boys into a minivan while the father unhelpfully called directions from the driver’s side. “My mother,” Jimmy started again, but cut the sentence short. His lips pressed together tightly.

But House knew. Because Margot Wilson was a force of nature in herself, and House was pretty sure the World Meteorological Organization had _really_ missed out never naming a hurricane after her.

Because Margot had been like the ideal of the fifties housewife brought to life. She had managed to not only get three boys through private school with excellent grades but had also managed to keep her house neat and tidy enough to never catch shit from her mother-in law and cook dinner every night. She had ironed her husband’s clothes every morning while he shaved with a straight razor, and made lunches for the elderly from their synagogue, and knitted blankets for the homeless with Bubbie Wilson. She also was pretty spectacular at guilting her children, which House kind of wondered if that was why Danny had run off in the first place. Even though Jimmy put that blame on his own shoulders, House knew that their mother could be a bit much.

“Your mother,” House agreed, because Margot Wilson managed to make her son feel like shit for not calling enough, for not following their religion closely enough, for not doing enough or being enough.

Jimmy blinked wetly at him, swallowing audibly as he picked at the Snickers’ wrapper absentmindedly. “She’d convince me to give chemo another try.”

Which, that was a _severe_ understatement. Because House knew what Jimmy really meant was that his mother would _browbeat_ him until Wilson gave in and went for treatment. Because Wilson’s mother would guilt Jimmy, probably something about her losing _another_ son, until the younger man gave in and sacrificed himself to the poison she wanted pumped into his chest. Jimmy would suffer through a port being drilled into his breastbone, and he would smile tightly as people told him how good he looked even as he withered in a hospital bed.

“Did you at least tell Michael,” he asked lightly as he passed the Sprite over.

“I sent him an email right before I told Foreman I quit.”

House blinked, because it literally was just him and Jimmy against the world. The younger man had severed all his familial tethers right before they’d run off. Which, not that House could blame him for not really wanting to have a conversation with Mike about it, because Michael was the infuriatingly _perfect_ oldest brother who had followed in their father’s accounting footsteps and lived his life perfectly with the white picket fence and lovely wife and two well-behaved children. Not that it took much to be _perfect_ when it came to the Wilson brothers, because Danny’s mind was rotting away in a mental hospital and Jimmy was a middle-aged divorcee with cancer.

“Not pulling any punches, are you Jimmy,” House tried to joke as he took a bite of Wilson’s candy bar.

Wilson rolled his shoulders in a shrug as he picked through the pamphlets on the table. “My dying isn’t about them either.” Jimmy pulled the map out of his jacket pocket, unfolding it and spreading it out over the pamphlets. “So, Portsmouth?” The younger man slid his finger across the bay and tapped his finger against the little bastard peninsula that Virginia had claimed for itself. “Can we maybe go to Cape Charles? We used to go there when we were younger. Danny used to race me to the end of the fishing pier there.” Jimmy’s smile was a small thing as he spun the can of Sprite around. “I know it’s kind of like backtracking, but if we’re already at Portsmouth it’s just like an hour north.”

And how was House supposed to say no to that?

But he couldn’t just agree. So, House huffed out a sigh and made a big deal of studying the map. He traced US-13 North from Portsmouth. Which, it was _technically_ east and _then_ north, but if it was only like an hour north, then House didn’t really see what it could hurt. After all, if was Jimmy’s last ride. Whatever Wilson wanted House would do his best to comply.

“I mean it’s just an hour, right,” House asked. He leaned back, folding his hands high on his stomach. “So, there’s a pier. What else?”

“It’s just a little sea town,” Wilson said softly, getting to his feet. The younger man folded the map up and tucked it away. “It’s got a beach and the pier. Handful of little shops; some cheap places to eat.” He shrugged, already heading for the parking lot. “It’s nice.”

“Nice,” House repeated, shoving himself upward and ambling after the younger man.

“Yes, Greg. Nice,” Jimmy said as he swung a leg over the bike and settled in the seat, pulling the helmet down around his ears. He gave House an expectant look until House huffed out a sigh, swinging into the seat easily.

Because if Wilson wanted _nice_ , House could give him that he told himself as he stomped on the kick starter, the bike rumbling throatily to life. He followed the younger man back to the interstate, reveling in the freedom the open road provided. Not for the first time did he wonder if he’d be Wyatt or Billy as he gunned the throttle, whooping loudly as he passed Jimmy. The wind snatched at the sound of the younger man laughing, but House still heard it as it pulled long and thin as Jimmy chased him. How was it fair that there on that road, with his best friend rotting inside, House was living his best life?

He left those thoughts in gritty road dust.

Somewhere about Tappahannock, when they finally pulled off the side of the interstate for gas, Wilson grabbed hold of his elbow, tugged him to a stop. “I’m thinking about maybe getting a tattoo.” House blinked dumbly at Jimmy. And then waited patiently for the punchline. But the younger man just kept looking at him earnestly.

Sucking in a breath, House shook himself free. “I wasn’t aware this was turning into some kind of bucket list adventure, Jimmy.”

“I’ve been wanting one for a while, but well,” he trailed off, mouth twisting in some sort of indication of Margot Wilson House knew. “But I’m kind of running out of time?”

“Sure! We can get your nipples pierced while we’re at it,” House scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Wilson folded his arms across his chest. “I think it’d look good.”

Which, as it turned out, was _exactly_ the invitation to think about it that his imagination was waiting for. Because it offered up something bright and delicate pulled along Jimmy’s skin, the way that that new skin would feel velvety soft under his palms, his lips. The likelihood of seeing the tattoo in an intimate setting was scant, but still, House could pretend. And admittedly, he kind of wished that Jimmy was still in the habit of wearing stupid button-downs, because the thought of undoing tiny buttons, pushing fabric from Wilson’s shoulders to find ink was hotter than it had any right being.

“Hey, I mean it’s your trip.”

The younger man shot him a bright smile and headed into the gas station. House huffed out a sigh and rested against his bike, watching Wilson go. Denim had been a good call, and he offered up a silent _thanks_ to that probably there, fucked up God for that blessing because he got to spend the rest of Jimmy’s life watching that miraculous ass in those tight jeans. Then Wilson was coming back, gesturing for House to start gassing up with a bottle of water. He rolled his eyes but shoved himself off the bike to unscrew the gas cap. The nozzle clicked into place, and House busied himself with getting more pills out.

“So, the kid in there said there’s a shop about five minutes down the road.”

“What,” House deadpanned, because he had kind of figured Jimmy was just blowing smoke. That the younger man was still figuring it out and thinking about it when he had mentioned it; not that he was going into the gas station to ask for recommendations.

“A tattoo shop,” Wilson explained as he started gassing up as well. “He said it’s pretty reasonably priced, does good work.”

“You’re being serious.”

The fifteen bucks Wilson had put in the pump ran out, clicking off as he stared dumbly once more at the younger man. Jimmy glanced over at him, eyes bright and smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And he looked infuriatingly attractive in that moment.

“No time like the present.”

Which was how House found himself following Wilson down a Podunk Main Street in a little town where the biggest store they’d passed had been a Dollar General. They passed a kid on a tractor who didn’t look old enough to shave but was apparently capable of operating heavy farm equipment. It certainly felt like they’d been driving for longer than five minutes, which made House doubt that kid at the gas station’s ability to tell time.

But the street shop was tucked into a double wide right off the main road, and House was filled with nothing but trepidation as they pulled into the gravel lot. “Maybe we should get you a tetanus shot first,” he halfway teased as he kicked the kick stand down and slipped off the bike. But in all honesty, maybe Wilson should have because the place kind of looked like the kind of shop that recycled their needles and watered down their ink and forgot to clean their surfaces.

“Can we get the tattoo first,” Jimmy quipped, already heading up the wobbly stairs to the door. He pulled the door open, giving House a pointed look. Huffing out a sigh, House ambled his way up to the door, following Wilson into the trailer.

The shop was kind of dark, a little dusty, and empty. Wilson peered around as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet. “Maybe this is a sign to not go through with it,” House mocked as he wandered around aimlessly, looking at all the flash art on the walls.

“Maybe it’s a sign you should practice your patience.”

House pivoted on his heel to snark out a response when a monster of a man stepped out from the backroom and silenced him. He swore he heard banjoes for a brief moment, because the man was dressed in overalls with a tight shirt stretched around arms the size of House’s thighs, showing off thick, colorful lines scribbled across his skin. He chewed on a toothpick, barely visible through the greying curls of his beard. And even his _skull_ bore lines of color.

“Can I help you,” the man drawled, stuffing his hands down into the pockets of his overalls.

“Uhm, yes,” Jimmy breathed out, stepping closer to the hulking mass of tattooed skin. Which, Wilson wasn’t exactly a small man, but he definitely had to tip his up slightly to meet the man’s gaze. “I’d like to get a tattoo, please.” And didn’t he sound like the polite, mild-mannered Jew that he was. And definitely not like someone who would stop in at a trailer for some ink.

The man’s eyebrows drifted upward. “Sure. D’you have a design in mind? Like on your phone or printed out maybe?”

Wilson flinched a little as he grimaced. “No, I’m sorry.” Jimmy rubbed at his forehead slightly. “No phone, I’m afraid. But the design should be on Google.”

“Well,” the man started, looking Wilson up and down as if sizing him up. “So long you didn’t escape from prison, I figure we can just overlook that.” He dropped down in a chair behind the front desk, swiveling around to what was, surprisingly, a computer from the last five years. It even looked as if it would pull Google up without a dial-up connection. “What’m I looking up?”

“The McGill martlet,” Jimmy quipped, wincing as House gave him a look. “It’s my alma mater.” House glanced over at the younger man as the massive man behind the desk started tapping on the keyboard. Wilson continued with his word vomit. “I want it on my thigh.”

The man half-turned the monitor toward them. “This what you want?”

And there was the martlet, all softly rounded edges. House couldn’t imagine Wilson with the design scored down into his skin, but if Jimmy was going to get a tattoo, he would get something to do with McGill. Because McGill had had Wilson all young and vivacious, with messy hair and starched slacks and his whole life stretched out before him. “Yes,” Jimmy breathed out, softly. “That’s it.”

“Now, this is about palm sized,” the man said, pulling his fingertip along the edge of the design. “Is that a good size? Or bigger; smaller?”

“A little bigger,” Wilson said, sounding more like a question. “Maybe like almost twice as big?”

“Alright,” the man said, turning to print the image out. He passed the printer paper over and gave Wilson an expectant look. “Try this out. Put it where you want, see if that size works for you, and we’ll go from there.”

Jimmy took the paper and held it against his thigh, and then against his inner thigh. The bird stretched from front to back of Wilson’s thigh. House couldn’t help but think about pulling his fingertips along that design, kissing and biting along the stain of ink in Jimmy’s pale skin. But he blinked those thoughts away as Wilson handed the printer paper back.

“I think that’s a good size,” the younger man breathed out.

“So, you want it on your thigh,” the man asked, staring intently at the paper as if imagining it on Jimmy’s body, the way the bird would press up against the lines of muscles.

“My inner thigh,” Wilson corrected, his entire face pulling up in a grimace as if sorry for correcting the man.

“You’re sure,” the tattoo artist asked, his eyebrows lifting in question. “You want it on your inner thigh?”

“My family is pretty religious, so I would say the spot is pretty much decided,” Wilson muttered, his fingers toying at the buckle of his belt anxiously. “They wouldn’t want to be able to see it.”

“Alright,” the other man said, pointing toward a back corner of the shop where there was an exam table set up, a few cabinets. “Go ahead and drop your pants, hop up on the table there,” he said as he held up the printer paper. “I’m gonna take this image over to the office and copy it over. We’ll shift it over onto transfer paper, and we can see where we’re at.” The tattoo artist shrugged as he shoved himself upward off his stool, heading toward the backroom.

House watched the man go before he followed Wilson to the back corner, where the younger man was peering around at the furniture there, looking a little green. “Are you sure you don’t want to rethink this,” he finally asked, which seemed like a pretty pointless question because Jimmy’s jaw was set in determination.

“Nope,” Jimmy breathed out. “I want this.”

“It’s gonna hurt,” House muttered, looking at Wilson. “Like a _lot_.”

Wilson bent at his waist, pulling at the laces of his boots roughly. “Yes, I would imagine,” the younger man quipped. “I mean, it’s a bunch of tiny needles jabbing down into my skin.” House watched as Jimmy kicked his boots off, dropped his jeans to the floor. For good measure, Wilson stripped off his jacket and handed it over to House before hopping up on the table. He chewed anxiously at his bottom lip, eyes bright and anxious as he looked up at House. And how easy it would have been for House to step up into the vee of Jimmy’s legs, to slide his palms along Wilson’s thighs as he kissed the younger man senseless. But they weren’t there for that. House wasn’t allowed that anymore, because they were _just friends_ , and he could be that for the younger man.

“Alright,” the artist called loudly as he strode back into the room with the transfer, some shaving cream, and a disposable razor. He set his items down on a side table before he dropped down on the stool and snapped on latex gloves. “Which leg are we doing?”

“The left,” Wilson said, shifting on the table, pulling at the thin fabric of his boxers just a little. “About here,” he muttered as drew a line across the fragile skin of his inner thigh. The hem of his boxers would just cover it there, House noted. He also noted that if Jimmy draped his leg over House’s like he used to, the martlet would be pressing against the wreck of House’s right thigh.

About that time, he realized the artist was shaving a good-sized patch of Wilson’s inner thigh, rubbing it down with liquid. The man took his time applying the stencil before leaning back. “Alright, stand up. Let’s make sure it’s where you want.”

Jimmy rolled off the table, awkwardly holding the leg of his boxers out of the way as he hobbled toward the full-length mirror. And where House was leaning in the doorframe, he could see the purple-blue lines making up the McGill martlet. For a ratty little street shop in a Podunk town, it looked straight. Like a high-quality stencil applied perfectly to skin. Wilson did a twisty thing with his leg as if checking all the angles his thigh would be seen from, before pressing his legs almost together, presumably checking that the not so little bird would be hidden by his boxers.

To his credit, the tattoo artist just sat there patiently, chewing on his toothpick while he watched Wilson overthink and overthink. But finally, Wilson made his way back to the table, hopping up and getting situated. His right leg had to slip back, his foot dangling off the edge of the table, while his left thigh pressed forward just slightly. And the motion definitely pulled the thin fabric of Wilson’s boxers tight against his dick, but House was desperately trying _not_ to notice that.

“So, do you want it black,” the man asked, picking up his machine and opening a brand-new tip, he screwed it into place.

“Like a darker red,” Jimmy responded, tipping his head back to look at House. An almost smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. For a moment, House thought the younger man would reach for him, have him hold Jimmy’s hand but then Wilson was looking back down at his thigh.

“Sure.” The wheels of the stool squeaked a little as the man rolled backward briefly, picking up a handful of reds. “I think you’re thinking something more like this. It’s a little ruddy,” he held up something that House figured was considered scarlet in the art community. “But if you want something a little brighter, I’ve got this one.” The ink was only marginally lighter, but House wagered the tattoo artist was talking more about the way it would stain skin. “This here’s more of a cherry color. And then I have this.” He held up a much brighter red. “Technically it’s like a crimson, but the guys here at the shop call it dog dick red.”

That shocked a cough of laughter out of Wilson’s chest. “The first one, I think. He’d never let me live it down if I got something commonly referred to as dog dick red.” House’s chest cinched up at the idea of Jimmy not having to live through that teasing very long if he picked the dog dick crimson. “How bad is this gonna hurt?”

The man clucked his tongue while he squirted some ink in an inkcap. He dipped the tip of the machine into it, pressed his foot to the pedal, and brought the contraption to life. “Aw, not bad. It’ll be like getting a handful of love scratches from a kitty.” Which House didn’t know how much he believed the man, because there was a pretty ornate Japanese piece on the guy’s throat. In fact, every inch of visible skin had some sort of colorful line pulled across it. Fingers covered in black latex rubbed a little ointment along the design before spreading across Jimmy’s thigh, holding the muscle in place. “Stitches hurt way worse. Deep breath now, and here we go.” Wilson’s eyes squinted shut tightly as the machine pressed into his skin. And the man’s voice droned over the machine’s hum, low and hypnotic as he pulled the linework into place. “What’s half an hour in this thing call life, what’s a little pain for something beautiful?”

“Right,” Jimmy huffed out, as if he didn’t have limited hours in that thing called life. His tone was sharp, tight as it wheezed out of his chest. “What’s the most painful place to get tattooed?” The muscles in his jaw had tensed hard, but the skin of his thigh looked supple as the man shifted to color in tight circles.

“Everyone’s different,” the guy said, shrugging as he leaned back to get more ink. “The ditches of my knees were a bitch.” He bent back over Wilson’s leg. “Had a girl cry when I did the top of her foot, once. But I’ve also tattooed a guy’s sac without him flinching.”

“That sounds thrilling,” House deadpanned, mouth pursing at the thought of sharp objects near that fragile skin.

“S’why they pay me the big bucks,” the man retorted without missing a beat. The tip of the machine slowly bled ink down into Jimmy’s skin, staining the pale surface with dark, ruddy red. “Your skin takes ink like butter, man,” the artist murmured as he wiped at the fresh wound on Wilson’s leg with a paper towel. He leaned back, collected a little of the ointment he’d left on the back of a glove up on a fingertip and rubbed it along Wilson’s skin. “Y’sure you just want the one?”

Jimmy wheezed out at a laugh as the needle once more bore into skin. “I think just the one is enough.”

“Oh sure, you say that now. Then five years down the road, you start looking a bit like me.”

House’s chest clenched sharply at that, because five years down the road Jimmy would be worm food, rotting in the ground. He blinked those thoughts away, stepping closer to watch the man work. Already the skin was bruising at the edges, but the tattooist had been right. Wilson’s skin seemed to suck in the ink, the color darkly vivid against the dermis. He worked the machine in tight little circles, leeching color down into cells. The linework was tight, perfect in a way that House definitely hadn’t expected from the appearance of the shop. The man leaned back, wiping at the excess ink. Red smeared along Jimmy’s skin, and the tattoo artist wiped at it again before rubbing in a little more ointment. He leaned back into it, bearing down on the pedal and setting the machine to humming once more.

All in all, it took closer to an hour and a half for the man to complete Jimmy’s martlet, wipe it down once more before wrapping it up, to explain the aftercare and give an in-house ointment. For them to pay in cash, to tip handsomely, and get back on the road. But how miraculous it was to see the small smile pulling at the younger man’s lips. As if that bit of rebellion had been a revelation, a spark of joy that lit up what was left of Wilson’s life. That smile had definitely been worth the side trip, especially given that they still managed to get to Portsmouth before sunset. They’d even landed a room at the first big chain hotel they stopped at.

Tucked away in their hotel room, Jimmy flopped back on the head and tipped his head to the side to stare at House across the expanse of floor between their beds. “How about room service?”

“Why Jimmy,” he teased, leering at the younger man. “You sure do know the way to a girl’s heart.”

Wilson laughed softly before twisting for the menu folded on the bedside tables between their beds. House lamented the fact that he couldn’t run his hand along Jimmy’s side, feel the flex of muscle along his ribs as he breathed. It was stupid how fascinating Wilson made the wonder that was human anatomy to House.

“Burgers or pizza,” Wilson asked, doing some complicated motion to roll onto his stomach, elbows tucked under his chest as he regarded the menu. He pulled a face, presumably at the prices, before glancing back over at House expectantly.

“Pizza,” he declared, tugging at his jacket. “You handle dinner, I’m going to go shower.” Jimmy waved him off, already reaching for the phone as House stripped off his shirt before heading for the bathroom. And thank _God_ that the shower was the tub variety, because Wilson was admittedly correct in thinking that House’s leg was bitching. He rubbed at the lacking muscles as he turned the taps, steam wafting up from the tub within seconds. For a moment, he thought about _not_ wasting the room’s hot water and seemingly decent water pressure before he pushed those thoughts away because Jimmy would want to eat before he showered. House could capitalize on the almost scalding water.

He kicked his jeans away and stepped into the shower, closing his eyes against the spray as the water swept away the road dust, the sweat, and the grime. Huffing out a sigh, House folded himself down into the tub carefully, closing his eyes as the spray pounded against his skin. He rubbed his palm along his thigh, breathing in slow and deep through the hurt because Jimmy was worth it. Jimmy was worth the mangled ache of his thigh and the tightness in his hips and the strain in his middle back. House kicked the plug, pushed it into place with his toes. Hot water pooled around him, letting him soak.

“You’re not drowning yourself in here, right,” Wilson quipped, opening the door just barely and letting the cool bedroom air in.

“Yes,” he deadpanned, shoving himself into a sitting position. “Unless there’s pizza.”

“There’s pizza.”

Jimmy closed the door, which House was grateful for because dragging his ass out of the tub wasn’t exactly the most attractive thing. And the last thing he needed was for Wilson to be reminded that House was a cripple. He kicked the plug, feeling the water rush for the drain. House eyed the grab bar suspiciously, because he still remembered Lucas loosening the grab bar back at the condo, but he reached for it anyway.

It took some doing, but finally House managed to shove himself to his feet. He reveled just a little longer in the cooling spray before he shut the water off and stepped out, reaching for a towel. Only then did he realize he’d left all his clothes out there with Wilson. Groaning, House scrubbed the towel along his skin before wrapping it haphazardly around his hips, bravely pushing out into the bedroom.

“Greg,” Wilson yelped almost immediately, throwing his hand up in a clear _what the fuck_ gesture as he hobbled into the room.

“Not like you haven’t seen it before,” he scoffed, digging through his backpack for the very last of his clean clothes. Well, he _thought_ they were clean, but still House tentatively sniffed at the fabric, nose crinkling in distaste. “We should hit a laundry mat while we’re here,” he said as he unceremoniously dropped his towel, earning House another yelp from Wilson as he struggled into his boxers. He pulled on a tee before digging through his bag once more in search of sleep pants. House let out a victorious noise as he found the thin fabric crammed down under his second pair of jeans. He shook them out, flopping back on Jimmy’s bed to pull them on. He wiggled up over the bedclothes until he reached the pizza box, spread open across Wilson’s lap. Reaching for a piece, House wondered if he could pass out before the younger man kicked him back to his own bed.

And it was like all those nights before, cradled in fragile, cloying domesticity as they shared slices and a bed. House dropped his head to the pillow, glancing up at Wilson because that was how he wanted to remember the younger man. With Jimmy’s lips curved in a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and as his laugh scrunched his nose. That smile turned on him as the younger man looked down at him, _exuding_ happiness like his bones made it rather than marrow. Looking for all the world like he’d lean down and press tenderhearted kisses to House’s mouth, to his skin.

But Jimmy just passed the mostly empty box over and slid off the bed. House watched him paw through his bag in search of cleanish clothes. “You’re right about the laundry mat.” He pressed his nose to a shirt and grimaced. “These are getting ripe. Can you maybe look in the phonebook for one while I shower?”

House shrugged, which Wilson apparently took for agreement to the task House had been given as the younger man headed for the bedroom. But in reality, House was a little busy thinking about Jimmy stripping down to skin in the bathroom, not ten feet from where he sat. Which wasn’t something he was supposed to be doing since they were _just friends_ but Wilson with water sluicing off steam-flushed skin should have probably been one of the Wonders of the World. House groaned, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow and biting because his sleep pants were thin and hid absolutely _nothing_. And maybe it was for the best if they _didn’t_ share Jimmy’s bed – too much temptation and all that. Because how was he was expected to lay scant inches from the younger man, smelling that cheap soap and the lingering scent of road dust and sweat on Jimmy’s skin, feeling his heat and _not_ reach for Wilson. Finally, he convinced himself to roll over onto his belly and reach for the phonebook, propping it up on Jimmy’s pillows as he looked for laundry mats in the Portsmouth area.

“So, thanks for using up all the hot water,” Wilson huffed out as he came back into the bedroom, pulling House’s attention over his shoulder. And that really wasn’t fair, because Jimmy had apparently done a shitty job of drying off, sticking parts of his shirt to skin translucently. His boxers hadn’t been tugged into place, and there was that new mark on the younger man’s skin. It was hotter than it had any right being watching as Wilson dug his fingers down into the ointment and smeared it tackily along his skin. The tattoo glimmered wetly, and House had to swallow down the offer to do that for Wilson as he watched the younger man work the salve into his skin.

“I have to encourage you to maintain somewhat of a masculine shower length somehow,” he quipped a little more breathily than was necessary as Jimmy dropped down on the bed beside him. And how did it make any sense that the cheap hotel soap smelled better on Wilson’s skin? The younger man huffed out an almost amused sound as he made his way for the pillows. It was his bed after all.

“Did you at least find a laundry mat?”

“A couple,” House gestured at the page full of listings. Which, _technically_ , it counted. And in House’s defense, the reason he hadn’t been able to concentrate was completely Wilson’s fault. “How’s it feel,” he asked, pointing a finger at the new tattoo. The ointment had an interesting smell, something kind of like incense but cleaner, which didn’t really make sense. Jimmy pulled his leg up at an angle, tugging his boxers out of the way unnecessarily.

“It’s a little tender. Kind of feels like I scratched myself.” Wilson pulled his fingertip along the bruising, the residual redness along the martlet’s outline. “It was worth it though. Something meaningful that I get to keep for myself after I go.”

House didn’t necessarily believe in angels, but if he _had_ , he was pretty sure that they would have been celestial beings that were unmarked by the life they had lived before. But it was still an intriguing thought, one of Jimmy in a white robe with impossibly large wings and that flash of red on creamy skin.

Maybe House should have gotten a martlet as well. Something meaningful to Wilson to keep for himself after Jimmy was gone.

His chest ached at that thought, cleaved itself open emotionally because it wasn’t fair to either of them. But life wasn’t fair, and House knew he had to take his lumps. He had to be strong for the younger man. And wasn’t _that_ ironic, because House wasn’t exactly a pillar of emotional strength. He was greedy and selfish at the best of times, childish at the worst. Jimmy really had picked the short straw when drawing lots in life.

“So, what’s next on the bucket list,” he finally asked, when the silence had pulled long and thin between them and House realized he’d just been staring at Jimmy’s new tattoo. He pushed himself into a sitting position, looking down at the younger man expectantly.

“Bucket list,” Wilson parroted, tipping his head back into the pillows.

“Sure. That’s what this is, right? One last hurrah. Things to do before it’s all over.” And okay, _Wilson_ was getting better at admitting that he was dying, at saying those words aloud. House was still kind of struggling to breathe those sonances into existence.

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, chewing at his bottom lip. “Can visiting the laundry mat be the first thing on the list,” Jimmy quipped, crinkling up his nose playfully. “Because you’re kinda stinking up my sheets.”

House scoffed out a laugh, pinching at the younger man’s side. “You’re no rose yourself, Jimmy. Really getting into that dirty biker stereotype, huh.”

And how easy it would be to just lean down and kiss Wilson, to press him into the mattress. He could practically feel the rasp of the younger man’s stubble against the skin of his cheeks until House pushed that thought away. Because that really was dangerous territory; they were _just_ friends and House couldn’t just press Jimmy down with a kiss. He pushed himself to his feet, crossed over to his bed and threw himself down. His mind offered up that his mattress was shittier than Wilson’s, just a trick to try and convince himself back into the younger man’s bed. House flopped back into his pillows. “So, I say we sleep in until check-out tomorrow, head over to a laundry mat, and then head up to Cape Charles.”

On the other side of the room, Wilson hummed softly. “If we sleep in until check-out, we’ll miss the free breakfast. Which even if we don’t eat it immediately, there should still be stuff to pilfer.”

He looked over at the younger man in surprise. “Why Jimmy, look at you. Did you run off and join the Black Rebels when I wasn’t looking,” he teased as House reached for the remote, flipping through the channels if just to give himself something to do. Coincidentally, TMC was playing _The Wild One_ , and it just felt like fate they watch it. Young Marlon Brando in classic greaser leathers swaggered across screen, and House couldn’t help but wish that it was _Easy Rider_ playing instead because he had some pretty serious opinions about Brando. Namely that anything that wasn’t part of _The_ _Godfather_ franchise was shit and absolutely not worth his time or attention.

“I’d just like to _not_ spend all our money in shitty roadside diners,” Jimmy quipped, wallowing down into his bed, pulling covers over him. House scoffed, glancing at the younger man incredulously. Because it wasn’t just shitty roadside diners. It was also big chain hotels and bars crammed with locals. The younger man tilted his head in the pillows to look at House. “Besides, I wouldn’t think you’d want to spend longer than necessary in Virginia.”

“It’s just a couple of days,” House muttered, hating how much he wanted to crawl into bed with Jimmy, because the younger man looked cozy in his nest of covers. His lashes were drifting lower, his eyelids pulling downward sleepily. “But free breakfast is always a bonus.” Personally, he hated the idea of being up and going before midmorning, but if Wilson wanted them to grab some snacks from that lackluster breakfast and get going before ten, he could do it. He glanced over at the ex-oncologist. “So, free breakfast, laundry mat, Cape Charles.”

Jimmy shimmied down further into his covers, his attention on the black and white movie. “Sounds like a plan to me. Is his acting always this terrible,” Wilson quipped, gesturing toward the TV.

“Thank you,” House exclaimed, clicking through a few more channels. “How about _Snapped_ instead?”

“ _Snapped_ it is.”

But by two episodes into what appeared to be a marathon, Jimmy had drifted off and House was left alone with thoughts too loud. He tipped his head back into the pillows, looking over at the younger man. The muted colors from the TV scattered along Wilson’s features, softened them. And House couldn’t help but wonder how he was meant to go on without the other man. Because roughly eighteen years hadn’t been nearly enough time, and House had expected to spend the rest of his life with Jimmy in some aspect. So much of his life had been twisted up with Jimmy, and sometimes it felt like his heart only beat for Wilson. In the end, what were House’s chances of developing takotsubo, of his heart withering in his chest and leaving him a shell?

He swallowed hard before he stared up at the ceiling, watching shadows crawl across the plaster.

But he must have drifted off because House jolted awake to the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut, water rumbling through the pipes as Wilson showered. House rubbed his hand over his face, sucking in a breath as he got to his feet. He swallowed down a few ibuprofens with tepid water and picked through his clothes once more. Really, they could all use a wash, but finally he settled on the pair of jeans he’d left on the floor and a loose Henley. He grabbed up an undershirt, because they’d be doing laundry and there were things he didn’t want Jimmy to see, things he’d managed to keep hidden away so far. House wadded up the fabric and sat on the edge of the bed watching a Lifetime movie, waiting for his turn in the shower. And when Wilson emerged in a cloud of steam, clean-shaven and damp, House just grunted out something that might have been _good morning_ as he pushed past the younger man into the bathroom. House stood under the spray, letting it beat the aches of the road out of him until the water ran cold. He scrubbed his teeth until his gums bled. He used a copious amount deodorant. He pulled on his underclothes, spreading his hand against the flaking red vinyl transfer on his worn thin undershirt before dressing the rest of the way. He pushed out into the room. And it felt rushed, like they were on the lam rather than just trying to outrun death, as they crammed their clothes down into their backpacks and laced up their boots. It was too early for words as the room door closed behind them, as they picked through breakfast foods and sipped shitty hotel coffee that bordered there on burnt. But Wilson still offered up a smile to the girl at the front desk as they returned their room keys and paid the bill.

Out in the parking lot, Jimmy knocked his shoulder into House’s. “Are you awake enough to converse?”

House peered blearily at Wilson, watching as the younger man went about readying the motorcycle, swinging up on the machine. “Do we have to,” he grumbled, swinging his leg over the bike’s seat. Of course, Wilson liked to talk, but he just shrugged his shoulders as if content to settle into the silence. Thankfully, the bikes made it impossible to talk on the road as they headed for the laundry mat.

And it was stupid how domestic the simple act of laundry in a sterile laundry mat surrounded by strangers felt as Jimmy just dumped their clothes together in an industrial sized washer. In their life before, Wilson had studiously separated colors and darks, used lightly scented detergent for sensitive skin, and washed everything on its appropriate setting. But there he was, just dumping all their clothes together in a mass of worn cotton and sweat-stiff denim. Jimmy huffed out a sigh as he pulled off his McGill sweatshirt, and House watched the line of his body stretch, the upward slip of his shirt, the hint of skin that appeared there. The younger man dropped the sweatshirt in and slammed the lid, cranked the setting to _bulky,_ and hit start. He pulled out the map, unfolded it atop the washer. House ambled forward because he couldn’t exactly see the map from across the room. Had nothing to do with the strange allure of the scent of sweat and cheap hotel soap and sunshine on Jimmy’s skin.

“So, we just follow US-13 North up,” Wilson muttered incredulously, as if surprised and untrusting that it could be so simple to get to Cape Charles. “Maybe we can find an open hotel room in Virginia Beach.” His finger pulled from Cape Charles to Virginia Beach. “I mean, end of May. Kids should still be in school,” his tone tipped up in question, Wilson looking over at him for confirmation. “Right?”

House shrugged as he fished some pills out of his pocket, dry swallowing them with a grimace. “I don’t know.” For all he knew, school was already out until starting back up in the fall. Or Virginia was just full of people who didn’t think education was something to focus on, with its teenagers spending their summer days on road trips and parents with no qualms of pulling their young children from school to travel willy-nilly. “I mean I _thought_ school let out closer to mid-June but it’s usually kind of suspect for a man in his fifties to pay close attention to school schedules if he doesn’t have children of his own,” House teased.

Wilson shot him a look, something sharp and amused and begrudgingly fond. That close, he could see the grey starting to fleck through Jimmy’s dark hair, right there at the temples. And that sign of life was more attractive than it had any right being. But House wanted to push his fingers through those strands as he pulled Wilson in for soft kisses. He wanted to see that dark hair turn grey, wanted to watch it salt and pepper with age and a life well-lived. Oh, how he wanted. But Jimmy would go gently into that dark night before that happened. House swallowed hard, feeling his chest twist up, because how was that fair? How could the universe keep that from him?

He slumped down in a hard plastic chair and watched Wilson tip his hips back against the washer, slipping up on the machine as he held the map in front of him. The sunlight was golden where it pushed through the windows, softening the younger man’s edges as he shook the thin paper in House’s direction. “So, I think when we leave Cape Charles, we should just stop in Virginia Beach.” House just made a noncommittal noise low in his throat as he leaned back, rubbing at his thigh mindlessly. “Where do you think you want to stop in North Carolina?”

“Name some places,” he quipped. “Fun names only.”

The younger man smiled, rubbing at his chin as he regarded the map. “Mm. Well, there’s a Dismal Swamp State Park. So, _that’s_ fun.”

“Pass.”

“Okay,” Jimmy drawled, tilting his head to the side as his gaze flitted along the map. “Corapeake. Tar Corner. Rockyhock. Winfall. Edenton.”

That last one sparked something in him because Edenton sounded like some little Podunk paradise. It sounded like Jimmy soft and lazy in bed and like almost-romantic dinners on the waterfront. It sounded like white-sand beaches and beautiful sunsets and sailboats breaking up the pale blue sky. And how could House say no to that?

“I say Edenton.”

Jimmy glanced over the map at him just as the washer buzzed, groaning to a stop. And there was something in his gaze, like maybe Wilson had had those same thoughts. “Edenton it is,” the younger man agreed as he slipped off the machine, tugging the lid open. House watched Wilson shift their wet clothes over to the dryer, knocking the door closed with his hip. Jimmy leaned back against the machine once he’d started it, crossing his arms over his chest. “How do you feel about oysters,” Wilson finally asked, head tipping to the side. “I saw a seafood restaurant just up the road. We could have some lunch while the clothes finish drying.”

Okay, and how was _that_ fair? Because Jimmy was offering up aphrodisiacs, and House could never say no to watching Wilson suck anything. Who cared if it was slimy, mucousy globs of oysters on the half-shell? Which was how he found himself at some out of the way shack on the water, watching Jimmy work his way through a plate of those abominations on the half-shell while House picked at his fish and chips. And House was pretty sure the whole _watching_ bit of eating oysters was the aphrodisiac part of those shellfish. Because each oyster offered up the curve and press of soft lips to hard shell, and an indecent slurp of liquor, and the long line of Jimmy’s throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“That’s disgusting,” he told the younger man, mouth twisting into a grimace even as his gaze stuck on Jimmy’s mouth while he tipped another oyster down his throat. The lack of a gag reflex was pretty impressive, because House _had_ choked when trying to swallow down those loogie-esque things.

“You’re watching pretty closely for it to be disgusting,” Wilson quipped, giving House a sharp-edged, teasing smile as he worked another oyster free, tipping up his head to slurp it down. There was a dribble of liquor there at the corner of the younger man’s mouth accompanied by the completely unnecessary, but immensely appreciated, swipe of Jimmy’s tongue at that briny juice. The younger man tipped the shell upside down as he pushed the back of his hand against his mouth.

“It’s like a train wreck. How am I expected to look away?”

The younger man just rolled his eyes, working the final oyster free. “I could make it worse.”

That was a dangerous comment, a _flirty_ comment. Because it pulled at House’s guts hotly in a way that usually ended with his jeans feeling way too tight. “Worse than you willingly sucking snot? I definitely don’t think so.” Which, once those words left his mouth, House heard it for the challenge that it had, unintentionally, been. He mentally crossed his fingers that Wilson would rise to the bait, as the younger man sipped his beer, mouth twisting at the corner. He jiggled the shell a little as he swallowed his mouthful of stout as he nodded.

And Jimmy did not disappoint. Because the whole affair was obscene as Wilson’s bottom lip caught at the edge of shell, sliding back against the ridges of calcium more than strictly necessary, and the younger man’s _fucking tongue_ drifted out to scoop that muscle instead of tipping it into his mouth. Which was a dirty trick, not that House cared all that much because Wilson’s cheeks had hollowed as his lashes fluttered against his cheeks. If the slurp hadn’t been indecent, the appreciative groan that followed _definitely_ was. And the flex of the younger man’s throat as he swallowed had no right being that attractive. Not to mention House could have really gone the rest of his life without the image of Jimmy’s pink tongue swiping up the smooth inside of the shell, because he _felt_ that action on his dick.

His jeans were _definitely_ a little bit tight. And Jimmy was _definitely_ a little bit of a tease.

Scratching at his eyebrow, House gulped at his beer to wet his suddenly mouth, to unstick his tongue. He cleared his throat. “Well, that was unnecessary,” he huffed out, tone breathier than he would have liked. But Jimmy just gave him a wolfish grin and turned the final shell over, leaning back in his chair smugly. And House desperately wanted to crash into the younger man, to crush his lips to Jimmy’s and lick filthily into his mouth regardless of the briny taste sharpened with citrus that he knew he’d find.

“Ready to go,” Jimmy asked as he pulled out enough to cover the check, his tone bright in a way that told House he knew he’d won. Not that House needed a reminder, because House’s jeans were a little uncomfortable right then. And there really wasn’t a good way to discretely shift his dick in that unforgiving denim, and House refused to give Wilson the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten that reaction. He bit at the inside of his cheek, as if that sharp burst of pain would maybe encourage his cock to soften, but Jimmy’s smile was such a _good_ thing.

So, House just gritted his teeth, offered up an almost-smile as he shoved himself to his feet. “Yep!”

Wilson huffed out a laugh as he got to his feet. The moment the younger man turned his back on House, he was tugging at the pockets of his jeans, the line of the outseam. He wiggled his hips a little more than necessary as he walked in an attempt to shift his dick into a better position.

Not that it helped, because as he straddled the bike it was difficult not to tip his hips forward, press his semi into the front of the seat because the whole body of the motorcycle trembled with the grumble of the engine. How was he supposed to think about things like _roadways_ and _laundry_ and _direction_ with Jimmy’s appreciative groan still rattling around inside his skull as they headed back to the laundry mat? How could House be expected to perform productive actions like shoving laundry in his backpack when he could still see Wilson’s cheeks hollowing filthily, had _felt_ that suction around his length once upon a time. And honestly, it was hard enough just following Wilson’s lead as the younger man collected their laundry, drifted lazily through traffic, but House would follow Jimmy anywhere. But he should have been paying more attention because if he had been, he would have figured out that the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel was something special. Special in that it looked like the kind of thing that would instill crippling anxiety in a driver in a car, and watching those cars disappear into the water, House was suddenly regretting the whole idea of riding southward on a bike. But House couldn’t exactly hit the brakes, because there were cars behind them, crowding them onward. So, he sucked in a grounding breath and hit the throttle, following Jimmy into the bay. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, but he imagined that he could feel the ocean crushing around him. And when they broke through the bay, House felt like he could breathe again, like his ribs finally expanded off his lungs.

They only had to do it three more times.

He groaned mentally, trying to emotionally prepare himself to once more disappear beneath the waves.

Admittedly, their foray under the ocean was kind of worth it as they started riding through Fisherman Island and up through the wildlife refuge. The Eastern Shore was prettier than House would have thought with its windswept dunes and weather-worn piers occasionally visible through the cypress groves flanking the road. Egrets lifted from the treetops in a flurry of white feathers.

Fifteen minutes and one left turn was all it took to get to Cape Charles. Through marshes and meadowlands and strewn about buildings in brick and cream. Past almost towns and worn-down houses and aged out buildings.

Cape Charles was a little coastal gem House decided pretty quickly, with its gingerbread houses and clusters of quaint shops. And it was entirely too easy to see little Jimmy Wilson eating ice cream at Brown Dog, his cheeks reddened with sun and wind-blown hair falling into his eyes. He could see a young Jimmy in low-slung shorts and a surf-worn tee and threadbare sneakers, running along passerby-heavy streets with his brothers while their parents lagged behind. And the whole thought was so _American_ that his heart cinched up tight as House followed Wilson through the town toward the beach.

House parked beside Jimmy and looked disdainfully at the path cut into the dunes, because it reminded House how much he _hated_ sand. The almost-solid fluidity of it made it hard to walk on, even more so with his bum leg, because House had a hard enough time walking on solid land. But Wilson was practically vibrating with excitement as he rolled off the bike, and that was hard to argue with. House jammed the kick stand down into a pock in the asphalt before he rolled off the bike, ambling toward Wilson. Already, he could hear the crash of waves echoing dully just beyond the dunes.

Wilson laced his arm through House’s, pulling him along. House pulled his hand through sand grass as he let Jimmy lead him between those dunes. “So, Baby Wilson running along the coastline, huh,” House teased, even as he leaned heavier against Wilson.

“My mother’s dad had a little fishing shack just north of here. We used to come visit during the summer.”

“Well then! Aren’t you just the quintessential all-American male,” House teased as he leaned heavily against Wilson. He bumped his hip against the younger man’s as they meandered up the sands. The grains rolled under the soles of his boots, throwing him unsteadily along the beach as they treaded upward.

Jimmy pulled him along toward the pier, where weathered wood jutted out into the ocean. “I’m not entirely sure that I would call tennis an all-American sport, but my mother said no more contact sports.” Which it felt like a story there, House realized but Wilson had already shrugged the moment off.

The pier jutted out into the ocean, its sun and surf faded surface blotted against the bright contrast of the water. White-tipped waves crashed against the spindly legs of the structure. Sailboats drifted lazily further out, where the ocean smoothed into slow ripples. And the pier had way too many people on it for House to actually enjoy it as Jimmy pulled him along the weather-worn wood. Young kids in flip-flops and shorts ran screaming past. Old men, looking just as weather-worn as the pier, fished off the sides. The silence pulled between them as they sidled up to an empty spot, resting against the sun warmed railing. Looking down, House watched a stingray or skate, something _flat_ , drift under the pier.

“Do you think it hurts,” Jimmy finally breathed between them.

“What,” House asked, gazing out at the infinitely serious ocean, looking dark and endless the further out it went. He had a pretty good idea what Wilson was asking, but he didn’t like thinking about that.

“Dying.”

He huffed out a breath.

“I think chemo would hurt more.”

Wilson knocked his shoulder into House’s, resting against him briefly. He could feel the heavy sigh that rattled out of Jimmy’s chest wetly, as it shook the younger man’s frame.

“You cannot touch these phantoms,” Wilson muttered softly, picking at the grain of the wood with his thumbnail. “I keep thinking about you drugging me the office; that death is _nothing_. How cruel that we don’t even get to keep our memories. We live our lives too fast and too short, with nothing to show for it at the end.”

“Mm,” he hummed, and House really didn’t want to get into that. Honestly, he didn’t want to think about Jimmy dying. Because the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to die too, and that was kind of a dangerous thought process. “We live our lives to be remembered by those left behind.”

“Oh, great,” Jimmy huffed out, the sonances strung together with the hints of laughter. “I cheated on two of my wives and didn’t try with the third. Those sound like remarkable memories of me.”

And how funny that the exes were the first people Jimmy thought of. House blinked away that hurt. “You’ve got the families left, who’ll always have you to thank for more time with their loved ones. And the oncology nurses were pretty fond of you,” he quipped, bumping his elbow against the younger man’s ribs. “Pretty sure Kelley was into you too.”

Jimmy coughed out a laugh, resting against House just barely before he straightened. “Oh God, Kelley,” he groaned, covering his eyes with a hand.

“He would _definitely_ be into that new tattoo.”

The younger man’s head tipped up slightly, his mouth curling in an easy smile. “You’ll remember me too, won’t you?”

Leave it to the ex-oncologist to cut him down to his _fucking knees_ because how could Wilson even ask that. Not that he was privy to House’s deepest, darkest thoughts, but he’d been remembering the younger man for the last eighteen years and then some. He’d been remembering every smile, every laugh, every touch. His heart twisted cruelly, mangled itself against the cage of his ribs. Because how was House expected to be left with _just_ memories?

He swallowed hard against the tears clotting at the back of his throat.

“Like I could forget you,” House breathed out. And it was so much easier to say without actually _looking_ at Jimmy. Because if he looked at Wilson it would just be another memory he’d be left with. One of standing on a pier underneath the summer sun, crowded against by strangers while Wilson cut House’s heart from his chest wondering about if he’d forget his best friend, the love of his life. “I mean. It’s not every day I get to hang out with an ex-porn star,” he teased, needing levity like he needed _air_.

Wilson knocked his shoulder to House’s once more as he laughed, the deceptively light sound wrung thin and tight with tears. And House was powerless to not look over at Jimmy. Backlit with that bright summer sun glinting off the ocean, Wilson looked almost at peace – as if he was coming to terms with himself, with the universe, with God in that single moment. His shoulders, the edges of his face had softened slightly with acceptance.

“We can head back,” the younger man finally muttered, even with his gaze lost out over that ocean. Those cold espresso irises glimmered wetly, but House told himself it was just the sun’s reflection.

“Thank _God_ because the smell of sunscreen is a little overwhelming.” Already, House was hobbling toward the parking lot, as though he could leave those morbid thoughts out there in that ocean. Just fucking _drown_ them out there in the Atlantic as he pushed his way past sunburnt beachgoers and sticky children littering the pier. And only then did he realize that heading back meant another foray into the ocean, and he grimaced, suddenly not wanting to leave that little coastal town. “So, what was that out there,” House finally asked as he settled on the bike, holding his helmet low against his stomach as he watched Wilson straddle the machine.

“What was what?”

“You cannot touch these phantoms,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely before dry swallowing a couple ibuprofen. “What is that.”

“Well, technically it’s a poem. But I’m not sure I consider five words a poem.” Jimmy pulled his helmet down toward his ears, clicking the chin strip into place before he glanced over at House.

“So,” House pulled the word long, tilting his head to the side expectantly.

Wilson huffed out an exasperated breath, chewing at his bottom lip briefly. “I keep thinking it, okay, like a reminder or something. Because everyone dies, right. But I keep thinking about every patient I’ve ever lost; they’re right there at the edges of my mind like some sort of welcoming party. All those people I failed. I’m _dying,_ Greg. _Dying_.” Jimmy scrubbed his palms over his eyes roughly. “And it feels like some divine punishment, even if there’s nothing after this. Like if I’d done better, been better I wouldn’t have a tumor in my chest. And that thought is so fucking _loud_ sometimes,” the younger man whispered. “And I keep wondering if I was enough, because it feels like all I have is a portfolio of dead patients and broken marriages and bitter disappointments.” Jimmy looked over at him, dark eyes bright with tears. “Was I _ever_ enough?”

House swallowed hard because all he could think about was the younger man in a dark car, begging him to tell Jimmy his life had been worthwhile. He felt twisted up, pulled too thin as he blinked dumbly at Wilson. And there was that sinking feeling once more in his chest, like his body was way too heavy, collapsing in on itself in reprieve of that weight. Because Jimmy had always been enough, but there were the doubts that life had sown – in patients he had lost and marriages that had failed, in lost brothers and shrill mothers and a bastard of a best friend. And how was House expected to just offer up that validation of meaning with his heart beating itself apart in his chest? How could he not?

“You are more than enough,” House finally muttered lowly, looking out at windswept dunes because those words were crushing as he breathed them aloud. He stomped down on the kick starter, if only to not hear any response Wilson might have offered up.

And the second time on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel was less world changing but no less disconcerting as they slipped in and out of the bay, not that House could bother to be concerned. Because he kept hearing Wilson mutter those words, as if five simple words could wrap up the cacophonic mess of his thoughts neatly and sweep them aside. _You cannot touch these phantoms_. And the more House thought those words, the more he could hear the endlessness in them. The emptiness and loneliness and darkness of them. Because what was that Nietzsche quote about the abyss? Because how long could Jimmy lay awake in bed, picking over time-faded memories and mulling on his own mortality before all he saw were monsters? How long could Wilson face that darkness until the younger man fractured and splintered apart?

Which those thoughts warranted a whole case of beer because a six-pack just wasn’t enough for that tightness behind his breastbone. And he took that on as his first act once they’d gotten a room in Virginia Beach, as Jimmy changed out of his jeans and into something more comfortable. Wilson’s eyebrows had merely lifted in question as House had staggered into the hotel room with a case of cheap beer but hadn’t said anything as he unceremoniously dumped the case on the desk. He handed one over to Wilson, trudged out onto the balcony. The night was sticky where it pressed against his skin, humid in a way that New Jersey hadn’t really ever been. House threw himself down in the cheap plastic chair and propped his foot up against the railing. And while they weren’t right on the beach, they were close enough that the salt breeze wafted in off the ocean, pushing just past the steel and glass barrier of the buildings in front of their hotel. Wilson folded down in the other chair, setting his feet up on the railing as he tapped his can to House’s.

The silence pulled between them, roughened by the distant crash of waves as they shared their beers. And why couldn’t House have that for always? Because the sun was setting over the ocean, painting the waves yellow, pink, and orange, and trolling boats slipped along the horizon. And Jimmy looked lazy and content, with his feet propped up and a smile tugging at his lips as he sipped his beer out there in that fading light. And House’s ribs squeezed sharply, because that was perfect as he settled down into that domesticity and shared that peace with Wilson.

“I think,” Jimmy started, sometime around their third beer. “I think I want to go skinny dipping in the ocean.” He looked over at House earnestly. “That’s a bucket list thing, right?”

He reared back against the cheap deck chair provided by the hotel as he took a pull on his beer. “You’ve never gone skinny dipping?” Which House couldn’t exactly say he was surprised. Because skinny dipping was something one normally did on camping trips, on sticky summer nights after way too much shitty beer had started compromising the ability to make sound decisions.

“I’ve never gone skinny dipping in the ocean,” Wilson returned, putting his beer down on the cheap plastic patio table.

House looked over at the younger man, because what he wouldn’t have given to see Jimmy young and carefree. By the time he’d met Wilson, the world had already worn him down, taken off that bright finish of youth and left behind the dull veneer of adulthood and responsibilities. And sure, he’d seen vibrant moments of that youth, but it was always swept away in the end. Wilson glanced over at him, and the moonlight cast silver light along his features, brightened his eyes puckishly. The smile there at the edges of Jimmy’s lips was bold with just the right amount of drink, like he was invincible. Like he would live forever.

“Let’s do it.”

Wilson’s eyebrows jumped upward. “Yeah,” he breathed out, tone lilting in question.

“Why not?”

And it was just a hop, skip, and a jump from their hotel to Willoughby Beach. They leaned into each other, held each other up as they laughed brightly in the stifling night. The moon illuminated the dark ocean, the beach, tipping the waves and the sand in silver. They struggled out of their boots and dug their toes down into the sand, the beach long having lost the warmth of the sun as they walked along the waterline. And for all his misgivings about sand, House had found that everything was better with Jimmy at his side, beaches included.

Because that was how House wanted to remember Wilson, breathless with laughter as they ambled almost drunkenly through the dark night, shoulders pressed together as they leaned into each other. His voice low and soft in House’s ear as they picked the perfect dune to drop their boots, regardless that it was exactly the same as all the others. Jimmy leaning into him there at the water’s edge, the ocean lapping at their toes before the younger man stripped out of his shirt with a soft whoop, shoving his sweats down and running out into that dark water. He wanted to remember Wilson disappearing underneath inky waves, moonlight illuminating scattered water droplets as he broke the surface once more with a breathy laugh. Huffing out his own laugh, House took infinite more care about his clothes as he stripped down, waded out into the water. Waves pressed at him, sloshed gently against his chest as he joined Jimmy further out. Wilson looked up at him, gaze bright and playful.

“Doesn’t feel all that different,” the younger man huffed out, pushing his hands aimlessly through the ocean. “From like lakes I mean.” Which wasn’t exactly true, because there was grit and shells under his toes instead of smooth rock. And the water felt less smooth somehow, like House could feel the salt flecking on his skin before it dried there.

“You an expert on skinny dipping, Jimmy,” he asked teasingly, letting himself fall back slightly, the ocean holding him up. House glanced over at Wilson, watching as the younger man swept his hand through the crest of a wave. He watched saltwater dribble lazily out of Jimmy’s hair, spilling glimmeringly down Wilson’s skin.

“I’ve got a Boy Scout’s badge for it and everything,” Wilson quipped back with a hint of a smile before tipping his head up to grin stupidly at the moon. The younger man fell backward, floating on his back in that pale moonlight. The waves licked over Jimmy’s body, water gemming along his skin. The younger man’s hips tipped down; the water pooled around Wilson groin and pulled him into the ocean. Wilson bobbed with the waves. His smile was a soft thing, tugging at House’s heartstrings, and how desperately he wanted to kiss the younger man. He wanted to taste that salt where the ocean had dried on Jimmy’s lips as he crushed their mouths together, but House let himself sink into those waves, let the ocean wash that thought away. His skin felt tight as he pushed through the surface, the night breeze drying the water quickly and leaving only the salt behind.

Loud voices and louder laughter pulled his attention toward the shore. House watched a flashlight beam jump along the beach. It wouldn’t be long until that circle of light caught on their discarded clothes. “Were you expecting company,” he quipped, already heading for the shore.

“Shit,” Wilson huffed out, tone edged in amusement as he crashed through the waves toward the beach. A wave pushed roughly against Jimmy’s hips, shoving the younger man down with a yelp of a laugh. House doubled over with laughter as Wilson struggled to his feet. They stumbled those last few feet to shore, the ocean pulling heavily along their frames as they struggled onto the beach laughing. House barely caught his clothes as Wilson tossed them to him before Jimmy pulled on his shirt, fabric sticking to wet skin as he twisted and tugged it into place. Wilson hopped on a foot as he struggled into his sweats, pulling an amused sound from House’s chest as he yanked on his own sweats. Jimmy toppled to the ground with a grunt, wiggling his hips as he tugged his sweats up over his ass. A loud whoop echoing down the beach encouraged House to yank his shirt on as Wilson staggered to his feet, the younger man already heading for their boots.

Jimmy snatched their boots up by the laces before he stumbled back against the slope of the dune, looking over at House with a wide grin. House grabbed at Wilson’s elbow, staggering up the dune with the younger man as a rambunctious group of teens ambled along the beach. Their laughter floated after House and Wilson as they passed. House glanced over at the ex-oncologist, watching Jimmy’s smile wilt at the edges as they stumbled past. “You think they’re thinking about it? Dying, I mean.”

“Nope. And you know what I’m thinking about,” House asked, winding his arm through the crook of Wilson’s and pulling the younger man along. “The hotel has beer.” Jimmy huffed out a laugh, leaning into him. The sand gave way to hard concrete. The sidewalk was cool and grainy against the soles of his feet as they stumbled back the way they’d come not two hours before. He grimaced, feeling the fleece of his sweats rasp against his salt-tight skin. “I’m also thinking that nakedness and sand don’t mix.”

Wilson laughed, pulling at House’s arm as he stumbled a bit. “Sand in your crack,” he teased as he slammed his palm into the walk sign button. House looked over at the younger man, feeling his smile curl at his lips. Because Jimmy’s grin was hedging at feral as he looked over at House, knocking his shoulder into House’s as the light turned green and they started across the street toward the hotel.

And in the hotel room, House tossed Wilson a beer. The can nearly bounced off the younger man’s chest before Wilson caught it. Jimmy fumbled with the can before curling his palms around the cool aluminum. Wilson dropped down on the edge of the bed as he popped the tab on the can. House flopped down on the other, opening his beer as he did so. Jimmy tipped back as he sipped his beer, falling back amongst the covers. And drinking while laying down took the right twist of the neck, the right angle of the chest but House figured they did alright, because neither of them drowned in bed.

For once, Wilson let them sleep in. And how unfortunate it was that the beer from the night before had softened the scratch of sand in his clothes because _that_ was a pretty rude awakening as House huffed out a sleepy breath and rolled over in bed. Those tiny grains ground against his skin roughly, feeling like a million shards of sea-smoothed glass. He pushed himself up, glancing over at Wilson in the other bed, because the younger man was still breathing slow and heavy with sleep. He stripped off his shirt, shaking it roughly. Sand scattered from fabric. House shoved his sweats down, left them inside out and brushed at the fleece quickly. And while he was sure he got _most_ of that grit, unfortunately sand was something that tended to linger like natural glitter and had to be worn out or washed away.

“We needa talk ‘bout you bein’ unexpectedly naked,” Jimmy quipped sleepily, struggling to raise into a sitting position while rubbing at his eyes. And he looked endearingly young, still warm and soft from sleep like his bones hadn’t yet solidified. House could see the tender curl of Wilson’s smile under the curve of his palm heels, as the younger man peeked through spread fingers at him.

“I already told you that sand and nakedness don’t mix,” he huffed out, pulling on his infinitely less scratchy clothing. Which was better than nothing, but House knew that after a day of riding, whatever sand that lingered in his clothing would find and bur at his skin. The younger man huffed out a laugh as he rolled out of bed, already pulling at his shirt.

“I’m inclined to agree.” And it was _way_ too early for Wilson to be pulling his shirt off because House wasn’t quite awake enough yet to remind himself _not_ to stare. Not that Wilson noticed, as he went about shaking the sand out of his shirt, but House _definitely_ noticed. It wasn’t fair how alluring he found something so human so attractive, but the flex of muscle and skin over bone as Jimmy shook out his shirt had House’s mouth running dry. But House could remember the way Jimmy’s skin felt, and he could remember the way Wilson kissed lazily in the morning. And neither of those things were something he could have, so House just mumbled out some excuse about getting ready and headed into the bathroom.

Why hadn’t anyone told him how _infuriating_ it would be to spend five long – way too short – months with Wilson and Wilson alone? Because all those little things that should have irritated him, should have worn on his nerves, just proved to show House how Jimmy was the only person he’d ever loved. Every irritation had been edged in affection, in fondness so keen that it barbed deeply in his chest. As House showered, as he brushed his teeth, he wondered how he’d ever thought that five months could be enough. Because those five months would _wreck_ him. They’d tear him down to nothing, leave him a shell once they passed – hollow him out. Dust to dust. And how foolish it was, because House felt a little like he was sympathetically dying with Jimmy. But there was his chest feeling much too tight, his breath way too short.

The days pulled past like a fever dream. Hazy there at the edges like nothing was real, leaving him hot and cold at the same time. His thoughts twisted with his wants, leaving House disoriented until only the younger man remained. Because Wilson laughed bright and loud, smiled widely, teased and played and _lived_ like he’d always been meant to live. And House was falling all the deeper in love, plummeting downward – completely powerless against the younger man’s pull. Who cared if they stretched the trip out until hours became _days_? Who cared if they stopped frequently to eat at roadside diners and to see touristy attractions and to make memories that only House would keep?

He was pretty sure they had made it to North Carolina, but admittedly it was a little hard to keep state lines straight after so long on the road, but House thought he vaguely remembered a welcome sign a couple of days ago. They were somewhere about South Mills he _thought_ but all House could be sure of was that they still hadn’t reached Edenton. But there was something about the south that made them a little lazier, unrushed – like they had all the time in the world, because the drive down from Virginia should have only taken a couple hours, but somehow it had turned into a handful of days. Not that House was complaining, because the little diner they’d found made a damn good burger. Which House was currently stuffing into his face when Jimmy stopped picking at his food, as Wilson took to picking at his beer label instead as he looked up at House. He _knew_ that pointed look, the one that said whatever was on Jimmy’s mind was heavy and sharp and boded ill for both of them. House put his burger down and waited, watching as Wilson picked at his peeling beer label with a thumbnail and blinked way too much. He dragged a fry through some ketchup aimlessly, pulling designs into existence.

Of course, when Jimmy finally managed to roll those words out of his mouth, House desperately wished the younger man had kept them to himself.

“When the cancer gets bad,” the younger man started, even as House attempted to wave those words away flippantly. Because whatever the ex-oncologist was about to say, he really wanted no part of it. But Jimmy just rolled his eyes and ignored him, finished his sentence anyway. “I want you to help me kill myself, Greg.”

Those words _crushed_ him. Because how could Wilson just . . . say that over fucking _dinner_ like he was mentioning a new movie he wanted to go see. Not that House was exactly surprised, because Wilson had always had somewhat positive views on euthanasia. Just he wasn’t exactly _delighted_ to be included in some suicide plot. It was one thing to leave morphine where Jimmy could easily overdose as House did paperwork outside of his hospital room. It was an entirely different thing for House to facilitate Wilson’s death, outside of a hospital, where his entire life had narrowed down to _just Jimmy._ And how could Jimmy just expect him to say yes, to agree?

For the first time, House actually thought about it. He thought about waking up to a world without Wilson, without the younger man’s laugh or huffed out sighs of fond exasperation. He thought about missing out on the way the sunshine washed out those cold espresso irises into something closer to wild honey, or the way that Jimmy liked his coffee with just a splash of heavy cream and a little sugar, or the sight of Wilson laid up in bed with his head tipped back against the headboard and a book resting against his chest. House thought about Jimmy’s presence washing out to mere remembrance, becoming a time-faded memory. And his ribs felt too tight, shrink-wrapped around his heart at that, even as he tried to swallow through that hurt.

But by the time he’d gotten his words together properly, Jimmy was already schmoosing the waitress and ordering them another round of beers. And the moment passed. Wilson left him with those words, heavy and dark and pressing roughly at his brainstem. Because those sonances were strung together into a sentence that sparked his fight or flight instinct. But if Wilson needed him to be a friend, House would do his best to facilitate. He could fight down eons-old survival instincts and be what Jimmy needed him to be. After all, the last time he’d gone against Jimmy’s wishes, had ignored them completely and tried to replace them with his own, House had nearly killed his patient. He had dug in and fought against Wilson’s wishes, had pushed for treatment, and had found himself in a burning building rethinking all his decisions. He had listened to a hallucination of Amber crooning about House taking care of Jimmy, had felt the fires of Hell licking at the soles of his sneakers. It had only been fitting that the only thing he’d been able to think about was James Wilson. Because how often had the younger man pulled his sorry ass from the fire like some benevolent angel. And apparently saving himself to save Jimmy had been the only stroke of genius he’d ever wanted, ever _needed_ because those last handful of weeks with Wilson had been everything.

If Jimmy needed him to pull the trigger, House could do it, his own soul be damned.

He _would_ do it.

Eventually.

When the cancer got bad.

Which surely wasn’t an early June thing. Because Jimmy had only been going through the whole cancer problem, treatment free, for about a month, give or take a few weeks. No way Tumie had been aggressive enough to already jump from kind of bad Stage II to kind of worse Stage III and _definitely_ not to really bad Stage IV.

Surely not.

And the ride back to the hotel was tense and quiet, littered with thoughts much too heavy. As they parked in what become their customary spots, House couldn’t help but think that if they stayed any longer there was a relatively good argument for getting an apartment. They’d already been there a week; what was a little longer? The girl at the front desk already knew them, called out to Jimmy by name and told them she’d put extra towels in their room. House headed for the room, because he couldn’t stand to listen to her flirt with Wilson, only to realize he didn’t have his card key. Groaning, he leaned against the door and waited.

“You didn’t have to leave me with her,” Jimmy grumbled, knocking his helmet lightly into House’s hip before tucking it under his arm to pull out his wallet. He thumbed their room key free of its slot.

“I didn’t need to see her throw herself at you,” House grumped, folding his arms around his helmet high on his chest. “You’re _sick,_ not looking for a fourth wife. Remember?” Wilson huffed out what might have been a laugh as he got the lock open, pushing the door open for House to shuffle-limp through. He threw himself down on the bed and began pulling at the laces of his boots. “Besides. If you’re looking for a bit of fun, I’m right here. And I don’t recall you ever having an issue with that before,” he muttered, glancing up at the younger man. House kind of hated himself a little for saying that, but God did he mean it. He glanced up and caught Wilson’s gaze, where the younger man was peering at him hotly.

“I just,” Wilson started in before stopping, sucking in a sharp breath. “I figured after the whole thing with Sam, that you wouldn’t, you know,” and Jimmy trailed off with a shrug, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans bashfully before looking up at House. The tips of his ears pinked, and House couldn’t help but feel that bloom of affection way down under his ribs before he pushed that away.

He pulled an exaggeratedly disgusted face. “Never mutter that harpy’s name in my presence again,” he huffed out. But still, there was that washed out sense of pride because he had withstood the second coming of Sam. _He_ was the one with Jimmy in a kind of shitty hotel room in a place named South Mills and heading for Edenton, like it was some sort of small-town garden of paradise. _Him_. Greg House. Just like he’d promised that soulless blonde roughly two years ago. He glanced up at Jimmy. “Besides, what kind of person turns sex down with a stupidly hot younger man. Think I might be a cougar.” He pulled a ridiculous face as he curled his fingers in a pantomime of claws, and it earned him a laugh from Wilson.

“Well.” He threw himself down on his bed, turning his head to peer darkly over at House. “I will keep that in mind.” And that statement sounded an awful lot like a promise, Wilson’s tone sparking goosebumps along his spine in the best way.

He hummed noncommittally between them, turning his attention to the TV and flipping through the channels aimlessly as House listened to Wilson getting situated in his bed. House was pretty certain that the hotel rooms had just been getting smaller and smaller the further south they went. Which wouldn’t have been an issue, but Jimmy had taken to, _occasionally,_ being a bit of a tease. Because Wilson had started coming out of the bathroom in _just_ a towel and going to bed in _just_ his boxers. Like the younger man was trying to drive him out of his fucking mind, nice and slow. Huffing out a sigh, House finally settled on a serial killer documentary and settle down to doze off.

Sometime about midnight, when his thoughts rattled awake and left House staring up at the moonlight-drenched ceiling, the edge of the bed dipped as Jimmy climbed into his bed. He could feel it as Wilson’s head pressed a crater into the pillow next to his. Their breathing fell into rhythm there in the quiet of the room. The silence fell thickly around them, almost awkwardly. Or maybe it was only almost awkwardly for House because he was hyperaware of the scant inches that separated their bodies. He could practically feel the heat of the younger man’s skin. The mattress shifted again as Jimmy rolled onto his side. House sucked in a grounding breath, mentally counted to five, and then rolled onto his side as well. The shadows of the room softened the edges of the younger man’s face. He could feel the gentle flare of Wilson’s breath against his lips.

“Is this my shirt,” Wilson asked softly, his fingers tracing over the martlet transfer lightly. The fabric had worn soft and thin, the transfer flaking in places. And how could House be expected to answer as Jimmy had found himself in House’s bed, the night’s shadows leaving the younger man a vulnerable thing in those sheets that smelled like House. His fingers itched to smooth across the younger man’s cheekbone, to feel the rasp of stubble on his fingertips, to pull his thumb against that bottom lip. Because he’d waited so long, been so patient.

“Why would I have your shirt,” House scoffed instead, tone tight and breathy as fingers turned into palms smoothing over his chest, resting against the thump of his heart.

“Oh, right. I forgot that you played tennis for McGill.” Those cold espresso irises flicked up to regard him, a smile tugging at the corners of Jimmy’s lips. “If only I had known. Think of all the male bonding we missed out on.”

“I don’t think _tennis_ is a male bonding sport.”

Wilson hummed, leaned into House’s space as his fingers worried at the hem of the tee. The younger man pulled it away from his chest before letting it whisper back into place. There was a soft hitch in Jimmy’s breath as he slipped his hands up under House’s stolen shirt. Wilson’s palms were hot and soft on his skin, and House sucked in a breath.

Their knees knocked together lightly as the younger man wiggled closer. 

“Jimmy,” he breathed out softly. House’s fingers itched to curl into Wilson’s dark hair, to feel the thick strands ruck against his knuckles. To pull the younger man’s mouth to his, bite and kiss at Jimmy’s lips, lick filthily into his mouth. But he held back, enjoying the feel of Wilson’s nails scratching through the wiry hair on House’s stomach and chest. Because so long he had been chasing the younger man, and the feeling of Jimmy chasing him choked the breath from his lungs.

He wanted.

How _badly_ he wanted.

Wilson’s hands curled hotly over his shoulders as the younger man leaned in, brushing his nose against House’s with a sigh. House bit back a choked-out sound, his hand lifting on instinct, his fingers curling in Jimmy’s thick, dark hair. He tugged softly, pulling Wilson’s mouth closer. “Greg,” the younger man murmured, his lips almost brushing House’s.

House’s heart lurched. His fingers tightened in Wilson’s hair as he tilted his head upward, pressing their mouths closer. “Jimmy,” he breathed more heavily, tugging gently at Wilson’s hair, as if he could convince the younger man to close those scant centimeters. And that close, House could practically _taste_ Jimmy’s hinted at smile. A soft, broke-open sound breathed between them as Wilson pressed his lips to House’s gingerly. It was remarkably chaste, like testing bath water after waiting so long for the tub to fucking fill. He breathed into it, sighing and melting because how had House gone so long without? All he wanted to do in that moment was to fucking drown.

He pressed his lips more firmly against Jimmy’s, the sharp edge of his teeth catching softly at the younger man’s bottom lip. And that seemed to be all it took, as Wilson’s fingers pushed through his hair more firmly, his lips opening easily as he leaned into House. Their tongues slid together hotly, and House threw himself onto his back, pulling the younger man with him because he needed to be surrounded, possessed, grounded with Jimmy. He needed it a little more than he needed to breathe, as he licked filthily into the ex-oncologist’s mouth and moaned softly as Wilson rolled their hips together lazily. Jimmy pressed his forehead to House’s, their breath tangling damply together. House was unable to keep the groan in as Wilson’s lips pressed to his, their tongues knotting once more. He felt the younger man’s fingers curl tightly in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as Jimmy pressed closer. House sobbed out an appreciative noise as Wilson’s body pressed him down against the mattress.

“Too many clothes,” Wilson huffed out against his lips, rearing up to straddle House’s hips, pulling at his shirt roughly. House’s hands pushed up along the younger man’s chest as it bared, cataloguing hard bone and soft skin and the hum of blood just underneath. Jimmy’s hands covered his, squeezing slightly. “This whole _getting naked_ thing only works if you do it too, Greg,” the younger man teased. But it sparked action in him, as House jerked his hands away so he could pull at the worn thin tee spread over his chest, twisting in the covers to peel the shirt from his skin. House leered up at the younger man as he dropped the shirt over the side of the bed, the feel of Wilson’s weight heavy on his hips grounding him as Jimmy pressed his palms hotly up along his chest, scratching his nails down into House’s chest hair.

“If you want the boxers down, Jimmy, you’re gonna have to get off.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Wilson breathed out, leaning down to pull his nails more roughly along House’s chest, the sensation sparking heat down viscerally in House’s guts. He spread his hands along Jimmy’s hips, his fingers clenching and pulling at the younger man’s hips. Wilson’s hands spread on either side of his head on the mattress, his hips rolling lazily forward. And the thin fabric of their boxers wasn’t really doing anything to keep him from feeling the hot, heavy grind of Jimmy’s erection against his. The feel of it caught at House’s breath, snatched it out from under his ribs roughly. His fingers clenched heavily against Jimmy’s hips, pulling the younger man closer as his hips tilted upward.

“That sounds a lot like a promise,” House muttered hotly, rubbing his thumbs upward in slow circles along the cuts of Jimmy’s hips. He pulled the younger man down more firmly against him, and Wilson was willing to do it. The younger man was willing to press House down more firmly against the mattress, to roll his hips against House’s. Jimmy smiled down at him, rocking their hips together languidly as the younger man rolled his hips downward.

“Does it,” Jimmy asked as he slipped to the side, his legs tangling loosely with House’s as Wilson pulled him closer. Their hips pressed together roughly before Wilson pulled back marginally to twist and squirm his way out of his boxers. House realized he probably should have been doing the same, but it was lovely to feel that flex of skin and muscle over bone and even better to watch as Jimmy unwrapped himself like a fucking present. Not that Wilson seemed to care as he pressed closer to push at House’s boxers himself, his teeth nipping sharply along the line of House’s throat. The rasp of elastic along his skin was rougher than it should have been, but completely worth it as his boxers _finally_ pulled away and Wilson crowded up against him all hot, soft skin and velvet-steel length.

“Jesus Jimmy,” he muttered hotly as his fingers curved along Wilson’s shoulders, pulling the younger man closer, encouraging Jimmy to press him into the mattress once more. Wilson settled between his legs like he belonged there. His hips canted upward as Wilson’s hands slid down along his thighs, his fingers spreading and digging down into flesh. House groaned, tugging Jimmy closer as his hips canted up once more, impatient after having waited so long. He wanted; Jesus how he wanted. Wilson’s lips pressed against his harshly, the younger man’s tongue bullying its way into his mouth as Jimmy’s fingers dug down into his skin, pulling House’s hips up to his and grinding their lengths together. House groaned, his nails digging down into Wilson’s flesh, leaving bright scratches he was sure. Not that it mattered because how _badly_ he wanted the younger man to just press him down into the bedclothes and fuck him. A choked noise crawled out of his throat. His hands slipped downward along Jimmy’s skin, catching on the younger man’s back and pulling, moaning softy as Wilson’s precum slick erection rubbed against his.

His breath punched out of him.

“Please,” House panted, his nails scrabbling against Wilson’s back roughly. “Please Jimmy,” he gasped again as his hips canted upwards weakly. Wilson’s hands curled along his hips, the younger man’s fingers spreading as he rolled their hips together roughly. Jimmy’s mouth pressed against the crook of his neck, teeth scoring against his skin sharply. The younger man sucked and bit along his collarbone before he made his way up along House’s throat. Teeth scraped along his pulse point gingerly before Jimmy kissed along his jaw. Barely salt-chapped lips pressed delicate, sipping kisses against his before teeth rolled his bottom lip into Wilson’s mouth for a sharp suck before Jimmy pulled back. That dark gaze felt like a brand as the ex-oncologist peered down at him hotly.

“Mm,” the younger man hummed softly as his hands smoothed along House’s skin, his fingers spreading widely along House’s chest as Wilson dipped to kiss and bite at the skin-softened ridges of his breastbone, his sternum. He slipped fingers up into Jimmy’s dark hair, his head falling back into the pillows with a whimpered-out moan. Broad palms curled around his flanks, his hips, his thighs. That touch pulled downward as Wilson nipped at the tender skin of his belly, sucked a mark in the fragile flesh stretched over his hip. His fingers tightened in those thick strands, pulling sharply as the younger man continued his leisurely descent along House’s body, driving him out of his fucking mind slow and sure. “I’ll take care of you,” Wilson murmured, his hands slipping down over his knees, curled against House’s shins as he pressed nipping kisses high on House’s thigh, mouth drifting inward. House tipped his hips upward into the brush of Jimmy’s lips along his skin, his cock jumping in anticipation as he spread his legs further. The ghost of Wilson’s breath along his groin wrung a dribble of precum from his length as those broad hands skimmed back up his thighs, curled around his hips, and held him firmly in place. Which should have been an indication of Jimmy swallowing his dick down whole, but only served to keep him still as Wilson licked a broad, hot stripe toward the tip of his erection, pulling teeth just barely over the flare of the glans as that tongue swiped against the wet head of his dick. House pulled at Wilson’s hair, twisted under his grip as he whimpered. And Jesus it was good feeling the younger man hold him down firmly, that mouth sinking down over the tip of his cock. The slick slide of precum against Jimmy’s lips was obscene, shaking him apart as House fought to not pull on Wilson’s hair too hard.

He squirmed under Jimmy’s palms, gasping as the younger man’s mouth pressed downward, swallowing up his length wetly. His fingers twisted in the thick strands as his legs tightened against Wilson’s shoulders, the balls of his feet pressing down against the middle of the younger man’s back as his abdominals flexed hard. But Wilson just held him down tighter, pressing down until House’s cock slipped into the younger man’s throat. His calves flexed hard as he groaned when Jimmy swallowed roughly, his throat tightening around House’s dick. “Christ Jimmy,” he gasped out, his fingers tugging at Wilson’s hair before House made himself move his hands to the sheets. At least that cheap fabric wouldn’t bitch and complain if House pulled too hard. His fingers knotted in the sheets, pulling as his body tightened with each bob of Jimmy’s head. The younger man hummed as his lips slipped down along the aching length of his cock, the sensation rattling into him. His length throbbed, dribbling precum as the tip of his erection slid along the ridged roof of Wilson’s mouth. House sobbed out a desperate noise, tugging on the sheets as his feet pressed down harder against Jimmy’s back.

His muscles tightened as Wilson gave a particularly hard suck as he pulled agonizingly slow off House’s dick. Jimmy’s bottom lip caught at the tip of his cock, slipping upward as the younger man breathed out hot and heavy against the spit-slick skin. House squinted his eyes shut, sucking in a deep, rasping breath as he swallowed heavily as Wilson pressed a biting kiss to his hip. “Just letting you know I don’t have any lube,” Jimmy rasped against his skin.

House groaned, dropping his head back into the pillows, sucking in a sharp breath as his fingers drifted from the sheets to Wilson’s hair. “Tell me you’re joking,” House huffed out, petting his hands through dark stands, because at that moment his plans included Jimmy fucking him into the mattress just to make up for lost time.

“I’m not joking,” Wilson muttered, biting at his skin gently. “So, you just want me to keep on?”

“No,” House huffed out indignantly. “I want you to fuck me, Jimmy. Jesus,” he muttered as he squirmed, Wilson’s hands finally relaxing enough to allow the motion. “Feeling like you should have mentioned the whole _no lube_ thing first,” House sighed out, knotting his fingers in the younger man’s hair.

“So, you _don’t_ enjoy me sucking your dick,” Wilson quipped softly, scraping his teeth against the skin of House’s hip before pressing his forehead against his unwracked thigh.

“I’m not enjoying the whole _blue balls_ portion of the event, no,” House muttered breathily, giving a gentle tug in exasperation. The younger man huffed out a laugh along his skin, pulling his lips up along the length of House’s dick in a teasing touch. His hips tipped up slightly, following that touch as his fingers tightened in those dark strands just enough to earn him a soft, broken noise from the younger man. Wilson’s palms slid up along the outsides of his thighs, squeezing slightly as Jimmy swallowed down House’s dick once more. House’s hips rolled upward with a moan, pressing his length further into Jimmy’s mouth. His nails scraped along Wilson’s scalp as the ex-oncologist swallowed around his cock roughly. And the whole blue balls situation wasn’t apparently so much of a big deal as Jimmy’s mouth worked its magic around his length, bobbing and swallowing roughly. House groaned, his hips rolling up and pushing his cock more firmly into that hot mouth. He sobbed at the feeling of Jimmy’s tongue curling along his length, sucking sharply as the younger man’s head dipped downward as he swallowed House’s dick. And _Christ_ he had forgotten how good at that Wilson was, as his fingers twisted tight in dark strands and pulled at that incredible suction.

Jimmy’s hands pulled at his hips; his fingers dug down into House’s flesh delightfully. House’s hips lifted in a half-aborted thrust that had the younger man humming in encouragement as broad hands spread against his ass. And apparently the teasing portion of Wilson sucking his brain out through the tip of his cock was over as Jimmy pulled out filthy tricks that House only half-remembered and definitely wouldn’t forget again. House whimpered, rolling his hips into that wet, pulling heat as his orgasm cinched up tight in his belly. And how was it fair that Jimmy was somehow sucking the air from his lungs through his dick? He tried to gasp in breath, but Wilson decided that was as good a time as any to deep throat him, swallowing and humming against his tip. The sensations unraveled him, sucking his orgasm from the edges of his bones with a breathless shout. His nails scraped against Jimmy’s scalp, his hips tipping up as the younger man swallowed around him, prolonging his orgasm well past comfortable. House collapsed against the sheets as Wilson pulled off, and he could feel the ex-oncologist’s smug smile against his skin as Jimmy kissed and bit against his stomach, his chest before kissing him. His hands curled against Wilson’s hips, pulling him against House with a groan because Jimmy was still hard, and he could taste himself as he licked into Wilson’s mouth indecently.

“What about the lotion,” House breathed against Wilson’s lips, pressing impatient kisses there.

“I’m not fucking you with lackluster hotel lotion, Greg.”

He whined, tucking his head into the crook of Wilson’s neck as his hips tipped up against Jimmy’s, as if pulled up in entreaty by those words alone. “Please. Jesus Jimmy, please,” House breathed out, his fingers digging into Wilson’s flesh.

“No,” the younger man huffed, but House could feel Jimmy’s smug smile where it pressed into his skin. Still, House felt a spark of hope as Wilson rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. And while Wilson _did_ bring the lotion back to bed, he squeezed some into his palm and not on his fingers, dashing any hopes House might have had. Admittedly, House did enjoy watching the younger man work himself over, but he’d also _really_ been hoping for Jimmy to fuck him down into the mattress. He groaned softly, letting his head fall back into the pillows before House rolled onto his side, slipping his right thigh along Jimmy’s hip as he pressed his forehead against Wilson’s collarbone. House watched the younger man’s hand curl around his erection, squeezing as he pulled, doing that deft little twist that House himself liked so much. He tipped his head up, biting gently at Wilson’s skin as he reached downward, stopping Jimmy’s motion as he mouthed along the younger man’s throat.

“Let me,” he rasped out, fingers curling along that lovely length as House pressed his face into the crook of Jimmy’s neck. He felt more than heard the hum of appreciation that caught in the younger man’s throat. And the feel of Wilson’s thick dick pulling through his fingers, against his palm twisted his guts up hotly, because his length was hot and soft against his skin. Twitching, leaking as he stroked and Jimmy’s fingers curled against his back, in his hair. And maybe it should have been Wilson’s dick that was a Wonder of the World. Jimmy’s hand slipped down along his back as the younger man groaned, his hips pressing forward into that stroke as his fingers dug into the meat of House’s ass, pulling him closer. Overstimulation snarled along his nerves as Wilson ground his hips up into House’s, Jimmy’s length slipping slickly along his skin. The sensation wrenched tightly up under his ribs, tugging at his breath because that simple hand job was hotter than it had any right being. But the precum-slick slide of Wilson’s throbbing length, slipping and grinding against House’s skin as he fucked into the tight clench of House’s fist was indecent in the best way. And it was way too early for him to even think about getting hard again, but there was arousal pulling languid and hot through his veins.

Wilson’s fingers dug down into his flesh, crowding up against House. And the angle was too sharp, too wrong for House to stroke the younger man correctly. But he could twist his hand, tighten his fingers as Jimmy fucked up against him. He bit roughly at Wilson’s throat, almost tasting the vibrations of the younger man’s moans as House twisted his wrist. House sucked a mark there, just at the join, and the sensation pulled Jimmy’s hips into him roughly, earning him a filthy little grind as the younger man shifted to curve over him, press him down into the mattress. And Wilson’s hips rocked and ground down into his as the younger man panted against his hair and his fingers digging down into House’s skin. That lovely cock slipped up against him, fucking against House’s body. House could feel Jimmy’s muscles twist up tight as the younger man pressed against him hot and heavy as Wilson came, grinding his hips down into House’s as the ex-oncologist ground downward and he panted into House’s hair. And the feeling of Wilson’s length sliding through his mess sparked along his neurons, because Jimmy’s dick was hot and thick against his groin as it spread Wilson’s cum along his skin.

The younger man slumped down into him, breathing heavily against House’s hair. Jimmy's cum was congealing against his flesh as Wilson rolled his hips forward lazily, pressing up against House’s hips. And that slip of skin was indecent, pulling at his breath as the younger man rocked into him a final time.

“Next time, you’ll fuck me,” House huffed out against Wilson’s throat. The younger man’s skin vibrated against House’s lips as Jimmy hummed sleepily.

“Mm. So long as there’s lube,” Jimmy murmured softly, pushing his fingers through House’s hair as he curled closer, like with so little time left Wilson couldn’t be bothered with cleaning up. And House made the mental note to pick up some lube at the first place they stopped for gas as he drifted off with Jimmy sated and lazy in his arms.

Which, as it turned out, the little gas station just south of Woodville didn’t sell lube. House stood in front of the prophylactic section of said gas station, taking note of the five brands of condoms, a handful of pregnancy tests, and even a couple tubes of spermicide. But no lube. In fact, the closest thing the store seemingly had was Vaseline, which would _technically_ do in a pinch, but House could just imagine the shit Wilson would give him for it. He was weighing the pros of finally getting fucked against the cons of Jimmy complaining the whole damn time when the younger man stepped up to him.

“Are you about done here? Because I filled up both bikes, and I thought you were just peeing.”

“What kind of place doesn’t sell lube,” he grumbled.

Wilson gave him a curious look. “I would say a place with a predominantly straight population,” he muttered lowly, leaning in toward House while looking around as if expecting gay bashers from the days of their youth to appear. “Can we go now? We’ll pick some up elsewhere, I promise.” Huffing out an exasperated sigh in agreement, House followed the younger man outside.

“No need for lube, you could just sit on my face,” House quipped loudly enough that a young couple gassing up a convertible on the other side of the pump looked over at him. And to his credit, Wilson didn’t say anything even as his cheeks pinked. Instead, the younger man just shook his head as he climbed onto the bike and started it up. Smirking, House followed suit.

The first place to get lube, for sure, was a Walmart on the outskirts of Elizabeth City. And the selection was surprising, as he picked up a couple boxes and checked the expiration dates. Because there were the expected brands – K-Y Jelly and Astroglide and ID – but there was also a brand called Wet and about three varieties of a brand called Sliquid. And more surprisingly, the selection wasn’t _just_ of water-based varieties that were safe for toys and condoms. It was also a silicone-based, oil-based, or a hybrid selection. Not to mention there were odorless, tasteless, paraben-free options. There was even an organic lube with only _four_ ingredients. And it _really_ shouldn’t have been that difficult for him to choose some type of slick so Wilson could fuck him. House rolled his eyes, because Jimmy should have thought ahead, should packed some of that high-quality lube from the condo before they’d set out. He huffed and shuffled through a couple more of the products, scrunching his nose as he read the ingredients, purposes, and warnings. And honestly how bad would it be if he got Vaseline or a little bottle of sweet almond oil? He moved a couple of steps to the left and was reaching for the tub of Vaseline when Wilson stepped up beside him.

“I am _not_ letting you fuck me with Vaseline.”

“Okay,” House huffed out. “But will you fuck _me_ with Vaseline?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes and stepped back to the large selection of lube, hands planting on his hips as if the decision was actually something important. “Well, did you pack your collection of sex toys or will it just be me getting into you,” the younger man teased, picking up a water-based lube in one hand and a silicone-based one in the other. “I’d hate to wreck your favorite vibrator just because I like the glide of silicone better.” He turned back to the display and traded his current options for another. “This one tastes like tangerine peach. It says it’s _delightfully fruity with a splash of citrus to awaken the tastebuds_.” Wilson gave him a look. “It’s like they made it for you! Fruity and sharp,” Jimmy teased.

“Do they have any alcohol-based ones? I feel like if you’re going to try and be funny, I need a different kind of lubricant.”

“Pina colada it is,” the younger man chirped, snatching up a box and heading for the front of the store. And that decisiveness was admittedly sexier than House wanted to let on, because that was the kind of decisiveness that translated over into Jimmy pressing him down into the bed and fucking him hard. It lit a fire of want way down in his guts as he hobbled after the younger man. House chased after Jimmy as best he could, pushing past other shoppers and checking the crowded lines for Wilson. And Christ, how he _hated_ Walmart, because it seemed like there were only three cashiers and that everyone in the damn store had clumped in line with a million items each. And all he wanted was to find Wilson so they could buy their _single_ item, head back to the hotel, and Jimmy could _finally_ fuck him through the mattress. But he couldn’t find Wilson in any of the lines. His heart sunk a little, because his mind suddenly offered up the possibility of the younger man having just up and left him there, gone off to die alone like some sort of martyr trying to save House in his own way. Just then he caught sight of Wilson heading toward him, a six-pack of bottles clutched in his other hand, and his ribs eased off his lungs as he sucked in a breath. Jimmy held up the beer. “Shiner okay as an internal lubricant?”

“I guess that depends on how well you fuck me,” House quipped breathily as the younger man drew closer, shoving his hands down in his pockets.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Wilson teased, heading for the nearest lane. And House followed after him helplessly, because if Jimmy had taken it as a challenge then House was _definitely_ down for that. Because a challenge meant bruises pressed down into his skin and bitemarks along his throat and an inability to ride the bike for a couple of days. House watched Wilson stand in line and then pay before they headed out to the parking lot. Jimmy shot him a heated look, like he was just as impatient as House was as he tucked their items into the saddlebag.

“I say we go back, have a beer, and fool around,” House remarked softly as he swung his leg up and over the bike’s seat. And Jimmy just huffed out an amused sound as he swung up into the motorcycle’s seat. He gave House a heated look as he started the bike and headed back to the hotel.

Once inside the hotel room, House watched as Wilson dumped their bag on the dresser before he pulled his shirt over his head and kicked his boots into the corner, scrubbing his hands into his hair. And that flex of muscles and sun-kissed skin drew him in until House boxed the younger man in against the cheap dresser. His hands curled around Jimmy’s hips, tugging Wilson up against him. Wilson’s eyebrows drifted upward in question, but he went willingly enough, sliding his hands over House’s shoulders. House tipped his head down, biting at Wilson’s lip before crushing his mouth to Jimmy’s just because he could. The younger man groaned into his mouth, his fingers slipping up into House’s hair. His lips parted in an invitation that House really couldn’t ignore, and House licked filthily into Jimmy’s mouth, pressing him back into the cheap fake wood. The younger man leaned away, giving him a look as House pulled a palm up along Wilson’s side, over his chest, his palm spreading over the thump of his heart.

“Didn’t you say something about having a beer first,” Wilson huffed out, his nails scratching at the base of House’s skull lightly before he managed to put even more space between them.

“Got distracted,” he grumbled, feeling bereft as Wilson twisted away from him, slipping out from between House’s arms and pulling the six-pack free from the bag and heading for the minifridge tucked under the cheap hotel desk. “Stupid hot, half-naked ex-porn star in my room. Who could blame me?”

Wilson huffed out a soft laugh. “It was _just_ a speaking role,” he reminded House as he deftly twisted bottle tops off and handed over a beer, stashing the other four away. Jimmy leaned against the hotel issued dresser, his head dipping downward with barely contained exhaustion even as his mouth twisted with a smile.

But House had been staring at Wilson for going on nineteen years. He had catalogued each one of Jimmy’s laugh lines, had watched them crease themselves into existence. He knew every sigh, all the angles that the younger man held himself at and what they meant. House had devoted himself to knowing Wilson, to figuring him out as if that would make the ex-oncologist more boring, would help House to lose interest. But somehow, it’d had the opposite effect, because _only_ Jimmy remained. And the long days on the road, no matter how often they stopped, was wearing on Wilson. Taking a long pull on his bottle, he couldn’t help but think they should have already been in Edenton, not camped out somewhere near Hertford. House swallowed hard before he thumped his beer down on the desk and pinned Wilson in place with a look. He rifled through the plastic bag and traded the beer bottle for the lube bottle before he tossed it onto the bed.

“I thought you were going to fuck me.”

“Can’t I enjoy my beer first,” Jimmy whined, pouting playfully at House before taking another drink of his beer.

“You could always sit on my face,” House reminded him. Because House was more than content to do all the work if Wilson would let him. Not to mention, he didn’t know how many more opportunities he’d have to eat that ass.

Jimmy huffed out a laugh. “That was only funny the first time you suggested it.” He glanced over at House with the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips. The smile slipped from the corners of his mouth the longer Wilson stared at him. “So, you’re not joking then?”

House leered at the younger man. “Well, you _did_ get flavored lube.”

“Which is apparently a green flag for rimming?” Wilson threw himself down on the bed before he squirmed up toward the pillows. The younger man sipped at his beer as he propped himself up against the headboard. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

“You could still sit on my face,” House scoffed out, stepping toward the bed. He brushed his fingertips along the comforter until his fingers curled around the bottle as he leered at the younger man. “But I think at that point though, you’d want me to fuck you.”

“Oh, and _that_ sounds like a true hardship,” the ex-oncologist quipped, taking a pull on his beer. He smirked up at House. “A real lose-lose situation for you, Greg.”

“Careful Jimmy, that sounds a lot like you’re getting dangerously close to taking me up on my offer.” House rolled the bottle against his palm, leering at the younger man. Which the last time, Jimmy had been tied to the bed and hadn’t really had a say. He definitely hadn’t complained, because House remembered those breathy whimpers as Wilson’s hips tipped back against his mouth as he fucked the younger man with his tongue. Not for the first time did House lament the opportunity to have Jimmy on his hands and knees when he’d had the chance, when his leg still halfway worked. Because he still thought about Wilson’s back sloped, presenting that spit-slick ass for the taking, and it was a pretty glorious thought.

“You can have _one,_ Greg. Just one.” Wilson’s head tipped up as he swallowed the last of his beer. “While you decide, I’m going to grab a shower.” Jimmy rolled off the bed and slapped a palm lightly against House’s chest. “Better have an answer when I get out.” And that wasn’t really fair, as Jimmy headed for the bathroom, already undoing his jeans. The denim, the cotton slipped down over that perfect ass as Wilson stepped out of discarded jeans and boxers before he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. How was House supposed to just _decide_ whether he wanted to fuck the younger man open with his tongue or have the ex-oncologist try to rail him through the mattress? He, obviously, wanted _both_ and as many times as Jimmy would let him have them. Already, he was trying to think of ways to convince the younger man that two was better than one as House squeezed his dick through his jeans as his blood pooled downward. He leaned back against the dresser, sipping at his beer and rolling the lube absentmindedly against his palm.

He had finished his beer, taken some pills, and made up his mind by the time Wilson got through with his shower. And his chest twisted sharply as Jimmy stepped out of the bathroom, a towel slung around his hips as he scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Little rivulets of water ran along the line of the younger man’s neck and down his chest as he looked at House expectantly. And if he hadn’t already made up his mind, the visage Jimmy made would have made it up for him pretty quick.

“I thought you were gonna fuck me,” he breathed out, tossing the small bottle over to Wilson. It knocked into his chest before Jimmy caught it, giving him a heated look as House tugged his shirt over his head. And to his credit, Wilson didn’t move, even though House dropping his shirt to the floor had kind of been like a drag racing flag dropping. But Jimmy always had more patience than him when it came to bedroom antics. He dropped his hands down to his fly, watching the way Wilson’s eyes darkened marginally, following the motions of his fingers as he undid the button, pulled the zip to the end of its track. House had begun to push them down when Wilson finally prowled forward, crowding him back against the cheap dresser and kissing him hard, licking filthily past his lips. Thin terrycloth bunched under House’s fingers as he clutched at the younger man’s ass, groaning as Wilson kept his jeans in place and ground their hips roughly together. And what he wouldn’t give for his leg to keep its shit together long enough for Jimmy to fuck him against the dresser like that.

But then Wilson was drawing back, nipping and kissing along his neck as he pushed House’s jeans down. The towel was marginally thicker than his boxers, but both articles of fabric hid their arousal equally well, which was to say practically not at all. Less so when Jimmy slotted a thigh between House’s, pressing that hard line of muscle and bone up snuggly into the vee of his legs and leaning into it. His hips canted upward into that pressure, his fingers digging down into Jimmy’s towel and pulling. House’s head tipped back as Wilson’s teeth pulled along the thin skin stretched over his pulse and Jimmy’s hips did an obscene grind that had House seriously wondering if it was worth them just getting off like that, just grinding together like a couple of teenagers. But Wilson pulled back, his fingertips dragging teasingly along the waistband of House’s boxers, just barely dipping under the elastic.

“Should we move this to the bed,” Jimmy asked, tone low and rough, hotly edged like it could burn him.

House didn’t really have an answer to that, because Wilson was stepping back completely and letting his towel drop during the short walk to the bed. The younger man flopped back on the bed, his lovely cock flushed and hard, slick with precum as it curved toward his belly. And House couldn’t join Jimmy on that cheap mattress fast enough, nearly tripping as he shucked his boxers off and stumbling those last few steps to the bed. Their hips slotted together obscenely, and House was struck with the wish for his thigh to not be a wreck of mangled nerves and missing muscles because he was pretty sure that straddling the younger man, riding that perfect dick would be something pretty close to a religious experience. Just another opportunity he’d missed out on, was running out of time to have.

Wilson’s palms smoothed up along his thighs, his head tipping back to look up at House darkly. “Are you changing your mind,” the younger man asked softly, handing over the lube as if physically giving him the ability to make his choice. Not that it was much of a choice, because how could House say no to Wilson.

“What if I top,” he finally muttered, pushing his palm along Wilson’s chest.

“When have I ever told you no to fucking me,” Jimmy huffed out with a fond smile, already making to turn over.

“No,” House said, gripping Wilson’s hip. Those dark eyes looked up at him, as if expecting House to just spit it out already as an eyebrow drifting upward in question. “What if I ride you,” he finally breathed out, his fingers pulling downward to curl around Wilson’s dick, feeling that thick length twitch against his palm snagged at his breath. Because riding Jimmy would lodge that lovely cock deeper than Wilson had previously gotten it before, gravity and his weight ensuring House was practically impaled.

Tentative fingers brushed along the scar that snarled up his thigh. There were about a million questions in that touch. “Greg,” the younger man started lowly, his voice pitching roughly into House’s ears. That tone wrenched at his guts, making his dick twitch. Because it sounded a lot like Jimmy was considering taking House up on his offer. He shuffled upward until he straddled Wilson’s hips, his thigh twinged but it was totally worth it for the way Jimmy’s eyes darkened as he stared up at House. He shimmied his hips, pressing back into the curve of Wilson’s length against the cleft of his ass. Wilson’s palms smoothed up the outsides of his thighs, his fingers curling around House’s hips as his hips rolled upward lazily. “That is a big _if_.”

“Big something,” House mocked coyly, leaning forward just barely to run his palms along Jimmy’s chest. Wilson smiled up at him smugly as he bent his knees, snugging his thighs up against House’s back.

“Are you sure you’re up to that,” Jimmy muttered, his thumbs pressing into the cuts of House’s hips as he tipped him back into the slow upward grind of Wilson’s cock. And the feeling of Wilson’s dick trapped between House’s back and the younger man’s thighs, the slick glide of precum ground into his skin, was obscene in the best kind of way and House leaned back more firmly into that feeling. It burned viscerally through him, sending arousal to lick burningly hot through his veins.

“I think I can manage,” he scoffed lightly as House raked his fingernails gingerly down Wilson’s chest.

“You’re gonna have to shift up or something so I can work you open,” Wilson muttered lowly, already groping around on the rucked-up bedclothes for the bottle of lube. His guts squirmed, but House leaned forward slowly, paying special attention to his thigh as he bent over, resting his palms on either side of Jimmy’s head. Wilson tipped his head up, brushing his lips over House’s as he thumbed open the small bottle. House’s knees spread, his hips tipping down in anticipation as he watched Wilson do a complicated motion to spread the slick on his fingertips before dropping the bottle to the bed. Jimmy’s hand slipped tackily over his hip until his fingers dug at the meat of House's ass. House groaned low in his chest, his hips tipping down slightly. Those slick fingers slipped into his cleft, pulling downward slowly. He leaned forward, the edge of his teeth catching at Wilson’s bottom lip gently. House rolled Jimmy’s lip into his mouth for a suck, earning himself a fingertip catching at his rim, pressing inward and tugging just barely. His breath wadded up under his ribs at the feeling of Wilson’s fingertips rubbing against the furl of his entrance.

“Can you hurry it up, Jimmy,” House gasped out, feeling Jimmy toying at breaching his rim, making the muscle flex and relax, clenching around nothing. Wilson smirked up at him and proceeded to screw two fingertips into his hole, snatching at his breath roughly. He sucked in a breath, because Jimmy normally took his time, but there he was pressing two fingers into his hole, spreading them as he fucked them in and out of House’s rim. House dropped his forehead to Wilson’s, gasping and panting against Jimmy’s lips as his hips pressed back into that touch because it bordered just there on _too much_ in the best possible way. The younger man’s fingers slid deeper into that hot clench of muscle, his body clamping down against Jimmy’s fingers.

“Mm,” Wilson hummed, his fingers pressing up into House’s body, rubbing against his prostate in the best way. The stretch was haphazard, hurried as Jimmy fucked his fingers up into House, and House tried to catch his breath. But then Wilson was pressing a third finger up incessantly into House, his fingers spreading and twisting sharply as they went. And House’s body clenched against his digits even as his hips dropped down, chasing after Jimmy’s fingers.

“Please Jimmy,” he panted, pressing his forehead against Wilson’s as his hips pressed backward into Jimmy’s touch. “Please.”

And then those fingers were gone, and Wilson’s hand was curling around his hip, pressing House backward slowly. And the feeling of Wilson’s tip sliding up along his cleft was indecent, sparking arousal down in the cradle of his hips. House squirmed, his hips jerking downward at the feeling of Jimmy’s dick pressing up against his entrance. And that feeling was hotter than it had any right being, as Wilson rolled his hips upward, his glans pressing up against House’s hole, threatening to breach him. He groaned, tipping back into that pressure. Jimmy smirked up at him as his hips rolled upward, pressing roughly against his rim as Wilson’s hand clenched around his hip, tugging House downward slightly. And how was House supposed to be anything but powerless against that pressure? His hips pressed back into Jimmy’s, his mouth falling open with a gasp as Wilson’s tip bullied its way past his rim and slipped into the clench of his body. His muscles flexed as House sunk backward, trying to relax into the feeling of Wilson’s thick length pressing up into him. But the pressure was crushing as Wilson’s cockhead forced up into him, bearing against his hole roughly before his muscles relaxed just enough as the first inch or so of Jimmy’s lovely dick slipped into him with a roughness that had House groaning. He couldn’t help himself, as House jerked his hips downward slightly, feeling Jimmy’s cock slip up into his body more fully, because _Christ_ was it good. 

And _that_ was different, because all his muscles were wound up tight, making Jimmy feel even bigger. House wheezed out a slow breath as he sunk down further on Wilson’s dick, feeling it skewer deep down into his guts. He huffed out a sound of almost discomfort, rocking his hips downward carefully, and to his credit, Wilson stayed pretty still. House watched as Wilson swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working roughly as his fingers curled against House’s hip, but Jimmy didn’t pull at him, didn’t rock up into him as House slipped downward slowly. House almost sobbed as Wilson’s length bottomed out in him, because that pretty dick was lodged up in his guts as deep as gravity would allow, and House was feeling about as ungainly as if he’d had a piece of PVC pipe shoved up his ass. And House made a kind of undignified noise as his ass settled against Wilson’s hips, seemingly pulling the younger man’s hips up to his with a groan. 

“Jimmy,” he panted at that motion, his hips grinding downward on instinct. House almost sobbed as Wilson’s hips rolled upward, his dick pressing up even further into House’s body because that pressure was almost too much. He fell back against Wilson’s legs, throwing his arm around Jimmy’s knees as he ground his hips downward. And it felt like he couldn’t actually draw in enough air to fill his lungs, because Jimmy’s cock felt like it was wedged way up under his lungs, restricting his breathing as Wilson’s hips ground upward into House’s body. And he had no idea why he’d been so concerned about his leg, because Jimmy was doing a pretty good job of his hips rocking and stuttering up into House’s ass, rubbing firmly against his prostate and lodging in his guts in the best possible way. All House had to do was rock and grind down against Jimmy’s hips, which didn’t necessarily require all of his thigh muscles. His hands curled against Wilson’s chest as House pressed back, curving his back as he ground his hips down harder. House grabbed at his erection, squeezing and pulling as he ground back because his arousal was a simmering thing. He certainly didn’t have the required muscles to ride Jimmy like he wanted, but it was still a good thing as Wilson rolled his hips up deeply into House’s clenching body. It all felt a bit like a tease, like an itch he couldn’t exactly scratch as he squirmed on Jimmy’s dick, pulling at his own and feeling his body cinch up tighter.

But, apparently, he was using more of his thigh muscles than he had expected, because the lack thereof was starting to get to him. His actions were slowing, and there was only so much Wilson could do to keep the act as being defined as fucking rather than just grinding against each other. Finally, Jimmy just huffed out a sound of exasperation and rolled them, the change of position disorientating him as House found himself on his back as Wilson slipped up between his legs, pressing them further apart. There was something dark and hungry in the way Jimmy looked at him, grabbing at his left leg to fold it into the crook of Wilson’s elbow. He leaned in just barely, that lovely cock teasing at breaching him, as Wilson snagged a pillow from under his head, tucking it under House’s right thigh in a gentler gesture than was expected with the way Jimmy was rocking against him. Wilson dipped his head and bit roughly at House’s collarbone, his hips driving forward sharply and squeezing the groan out of House’s chest. His fingers dug down into Jimmy’s hair, the flesh of his shoulder blade as the younger man fucked into him roughly. And if House hadn’t been able to catch his breath before, he was definitely having a hard time of it right then as Jimmy seemingly tried to fold him in half. If he’d been younger or more limber or _something_ , House was pretty sure his left knee would be somewhere up near his collarbone or even his ear instead of just hitched over Jimmy’s arm as the younger man fucked down into him.

His breath wheezed out of him, squeezed from under his ribs like the last of the toothpaste from the tube as Wilson snapped his hips forward and ground down roughly. It felt a bit like Jimmy had managed to wedge his dick down under House’s diaphragm, and it was definitely scratching that itch. Already, his orgasm was licking along his bones, cinching his belly up tight as Wilson pushed his leg up a bit more, leaning harder into the vee of House’s body as he twisted his hips. And that pressure bearing down into him pulled his back into an even more impossible curve, like whatever hindbrain instinct House still retained had shifted to focus on Jimmy fucking him, breathing be damned as Wilson railed his prostate with unerring accuracy. The bed’s frame groaned and House was pretty sure he was making similarly embarrassing noises, but Jimmy was dicking down pretty good, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. His nails scrabbled at Wilson’s back, caught at his shoulder as his fingers curved down into flesh. “Christ Jimmy,” he wheezed out, tone pulled long and thin as House groaned as the younger man’s mouth dipped to his collarbone.

“Too much,” Wilson huffed out breathily, immediately dropping his arm and letting House’s leg drop, stilling with his hips crushed up against House’s. His hip ground itself back into place as his leg fell into a more natural position, which seemed to kick a charley horse into place high in his gastrocnemius, just below his knee. House hissed, grimacing because _damn_ it sucked getting old. “Do you need me to stop?”

House bore his nails down into flesh more roughly, pulling until Jimmy had folded more firmly along him, their chests pressed together and sticking with the sweat there. The weight of the other man made it all that more apparent that his heart was trying to beat itself free from the bones of his chest. His cock jumped against the pressure of Jimmy’s belly against it as House scraped his nails up into Wilson’s hair and he slipped an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “I don’t bend that way,” he huffed out, trying for indignant but landing somewhere around breathy as he swallowed hard.

Jimmy brushed his lips along the thrumming pound of his pulse, a broad hand rubbing at his hip and thigh comfortingly. “Oh, right. So, you _weren’t_ enjoying it then.”

He tugged sharply at his fistful of Wilson’s hair. “Are you sure you’re not the brat,” House managed to breathe out, sucking in a grounding breath as Jimmy crowded up against him, hot and heavy. With his cock lodged up House’s ass, House had to squirm to get comfortable, pinned in between the proverbial rock and a hard place as Wilson’s thighs crowded up against his ass. The younger man nipped at his neck, his hips doing a slow roll downward as Wilson huffed out an almost laugh.

“So, you don’t want me to fuck you.”

“I don’t want you try and snap my fucking spine,” he bit out, trying to grumble and failing as Jimmy rolled his hips forward again, hitching House’s left leg up over his hip. Wilson rocked their hips together lazily. And House squirmed, rocking back on Jimmy’s dick because it was incessantly pressing up into him in a pretty spectacular way that somehow managed to not be enough. Because Wilson fucking down into him with House bent up had been a delightful change of pace, but the moment had passed and already his orgasm was tempering out into simmering arousal. “Fuck,” he bit out, flopping back into the pillows as House huffed out an exasperated sigh before propping himself up on his elbows. And Wilson was giving him an almost amused look as the younger man hummed in thought before rolling his hips impossibly closer. House moaned, because his body held at that angle managed to wind him up tighter as Jimmy held that thick length pressed right against his prostate in the best kind of way, wrapping a broad hand around House’s cock and pulling. House’s back swayed as he squirmed, pressing his hips down impatiently as Wilson pressed his forehead to House’s. His muscles flexed, pulling tight at the minute rock of Jimmy’s hips as Wilson stroked his precum-slick length just on the right side of too rough.

And it shouldn’t have been that good, but the feel of Jimmy’s palm slipping along his dick, fingers tightening and twisting managed to jerk at House’s hips, had him chasing after that touch until he was practically writhing on the younger man’s pretty cock. He slung an arm around Wilson’s shoulders, his fingers digging down into the flesh of Jimmy’s back as he whined, his back curving because _fuck_. The muscles of his stomach wound themselves into a Gordian knot, cinching and pulling tight as pleasure ran icy hot down his spine to pool low in his guts. House gasped and panted against Wilson’s collarbone as he twisted his hips, jerking between the thick press of Wilson’s dick and his slick hand. His nails dug down into skin until he felt the tackiness of blood against his fingertips. Not that Jimmy seemed to mind as he shifted, spreading his legs marginally so he could rock his hips to House’s more firmly. House’s breath huffed damply out of his lungs as he bit at Jimmy’s skin, feeling yielding flesh roll over hard bone as he bore a mark into the younger man’s chest. His orgasm roiled sluggishly through him, his dick jerking in Wilson’s grasp as Jimmy seemingly pulled that pleasure free from his hips. House’s breath hitched as he spilled over Wilson’s fingers; the thick, hot feeling of his cum against the sensitive skin of his cock barbed down under his ribs, hooking in his guts and pulling as Jimmy twisted his slick palm against his glans. All his muscles clenched around Wilson’s thick length, bearing down on it as the younger man wrung House’s orgasm from him.

Boneless, he clung to Jimmy’s shoulders, rocking his hips down weakly as all his muscles constricted against Wilson’s dick, feeling every twitch way down in his bones. As Wilson fucked almost lazily into him, sharp pleasure sparked along House’s nerve endings and hurtled toward overstimulation in the best kind of way as the younger man’s hips rolled against his and Wilson chased his pleasure. Blunt fingers dug down into his hip and thigh, pulling him closer as Jimmy’s damp breath flared along the sweat-slickened skin of his neck. House clenched all of his muscles up tight, his back swaying as he bore down on Jimmy’s dick in an obscene grind that earned him a groan as Wilson’s hips jerked forward in response as the younger man came. And the filthy slide of Jimmy’s cum in him, hot and slick where it coated his muscles had House’s body constricting, twisting up tight enough to feel each flex and twitch of that lovely dick as Wilson folded firmly against him, his hips stuttering weakly.

Jimmy huffed against his neck, his nose pressing to the pound of House’s carotid. Wilson hummed almost absentmindedly, his hips pressing up against his before Jimmy pulled away gingerly, leaving behind that filthy mess of drying lube and leaking cum as he twisted to House’s side. A muscle twinged along his spine, somewhere near his L2 vertebrae as House flopped back into the bedcovers. He pulled his fingers through Wilson’s damp hair, where the strands had clumped together with sweat at the back of his skull. “Jesus,” he huffed out, sucking in a grounding breath through his teeth.

“How’s your back,” Wilson muttered breathily, turning to press his forehead against the point of House’s shoulder. The rasp of Jimmy’s breath on his skin was much more intimate than House would have normally preferred, but after so long it was a warm, cloying thing that settled heavily in his chest. So, he just pushed his fingers through the younger man’s hair, smiling to himself as Wilson tipped his head up into that touch like an overgrown housecat.

“Hurts like a bitch,” he teased, tugging slightly at Jimmy’s hair.

“Mm,” the younger man hummed. “You wouldn’t just be lying to get me to take care of cleaning up, would you?” Wilson nipped at his skin softly as he threw an arm over House’s stomach and made every indication of wiggling down into a more comfortable spot for a proper post-coital cuddle.

“ _You_ made the mess,” House scoffed, pushing at Jimmy’s arm in indignation, because he wasn’t really a super big fan of the grimy, crusty feeling of dried cum on his skin. At least the lube was water-based, and as such would practically dry into nothing.

“It’s not my ass,” Jimmy quipped, his smile just barely visible where his mouth was pressed to House’s skin. The bastard didn’t even open his eyes, which made House feel both fond and irritated.

“You’re a brat,” he groused with an eyeroll, as he pushed at Jimmy until he managed to untangle himself from the younger man’s grip and roll off the bed in an ungainly flurry of limbs. The bright sound of Wilson’s laughter followed him all the way into the bathroom.

And _okay,_ so maybe riding the younger man, for however long and however poorly, had been a stupid idea because it had extended their time in Hertford by a few days once he’d tried to get on the bike and his hip had done a fun _clicking_ thing as he tried to swing his leg over the seat and been unable to lift his leg without hissing. But it had also been absolutely worth it because House hadn’t been able to sit, walk, or _bend_ without feeling Jimmy’s dick crammed way up in his guts. And if that hadn’t been enough to serve as a reward, the way Wilson had tried to fuck him through the mattress had been, because House hadn’t even known hotel beds had box springs, let alone had ever been fucked hard enough on one that said box spring made noise. So, who cared if it had taken _days_ rather than hours, because they had finally managed to make it to Edenton.

And all House had wanted was to book a room in some nameless hotel, take a hot shower, and go to bed. But that thought had abruptly left his mind when he saw the look Wilson was giving to that waterfront bed and breakfast. Because Jimmy made remarks over the antebellum construction, the wisterias blooming along the hedgerow, and the sound just beyond the lawn. And how was House supposed to tell him no? And to her credit, the elderly woman behind the desk didn’t _say_ anything when they requested only one suite. But her gaze had darted between them, as her brow furrowed and her mouth pinched sourly, but she hadn’t said anything. Instead, she just passed over their key and pointed them on their way. Which turned out to be a suite tucked into a back corner of the inn, but that was fine House decided when they opened to the door and were treated with French doors overlooking the sound. Jimmy dropped his bag to the floor and stepped inside, drawing back gauzy curtains and throwing the balcony doors open. The faint clang of rigging floated into the room like a hundred windchimes, carried in on the warm salt breeze.

And that had made it all worth it, to see the delighted smile on Wilson’s face as his head tipped back.

House closed the door behind him, dropping his bag next to Jimmy’s as he joined the younger man at the balcony doors. The sun was setting over the sound, and the water was dark where it lapped against the edges of the lawn. Wilson leaned into him, touching his hip to House’s before his side, shoulder, and head followed suit.

“Well, isn’t this romantic,” House quipped, even as he wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s waist and pulled him in tighter against his side. Wilson’s skin smelled like sunshine and summer air as the younger man leaned into him. “That old lady probably thinks I’m fucking you about now,” he muttered, tipping his head to press his mouth to Wilson’s dark hair.

The younger man hummed softly, before jerking back. “Wait. Why would she assume you’d be on top?”

“You’re prettier, obviously,” he scoffed with an eye roll.

Jimmy’s nose scrunched, but House could see the amusement edging his gaze. “Which equates to me bottoming?”

He leaned in to nip at Wilson’s bottom lip, turning toward the younger man as his arms slid around Jimmy’s waist. “Uh, duh,” House breathed out, gesturing vaguely to Jimmy’s self. Wilson’s lips tipped upward in a smile as he hummed before he twisted out of House’s arms.

“So, you’re alright sleeping on the couch, then,” Wilson teased as he stooped to pick up his bag as he moved into what was clearly the main bedroom. The floorspace was dominated with a bed _much_ larger than all the hotel beds they’d been sharing, draped with a blue and white quilt. Jimmy dropped his bag in the corner and flopped back on the bed, arms splayed as if testing the size of the mattress. It had to have been something like a California king House guessed, because Wilson’s hands didn’t quite reach the edges. The younger man’s legs kicked aimlessly for a second before he sat up and began tugging at the laces of his boots, giving House an expectant look. “Right?”

House stepped forward into the vee of Wilson’s legs, his hands planting on Jimmy’s shoulders as the younger man looked up at him with a slight smile. “Why Jimmy,” he pouted, “surely you wouldn’t kick a cripple outta the bed.” He pushed Wilson back on the bed, trying to ignore that hot barb of want that hooked in his guts as House bent down toward the younger man. Jimmy smirked up at him.

“You were the one who mentioned our host,” he said lowly, even as his deft fingers curled in the fabric of House’s shirt, tugged just as little as Wilson’s head tipped up. “I wouldn’t want to offend her,” he mocked, even as he pulled a little harder on House’s shirt until he folded himself down along the younger man. The tilt of Wilson’s head, the amusement in his eyes made it pretty much impossible for House to not close that gap. He nipped at Jimmy’s bottom lip, his forearms bracketing Wilson’s head as he rolled their hips together lazily.

“I guess you’ll just have to be quiet then.”

And that came out a bit more salaciously than he’d meant it to, because the look Wilson gave House was all heat, something a little bit like a challenge to try and make him scream. House grinned down at the younger man, leaning forward to steal a kiss, his teeth catching at Jimmy’s bottom lip. Jimmy groaned, his fingers lifting to dig in against House’s scalp, pulling House closer as his mouth opened in invitation and the younger man’s tongue pushed upward past his lips. There was something lazy about it, like Wilson enjoyed kissing him just for the sake of kissing him, which House was all for as he leaned in to blanket Jimmy’s form and pin him to the bedclothes. Which wasn’t it funny how they would take any excuse to fool around like a couple of red-blooded teens, because there Wilson was impatiently shoving at his shirt and digging his nails down into House’s back.

That bright barb of pain jerked House’s hips down into Wilson’s, grinding their hardening lengths together and sparking arousal along his skin. The fingers digging at his back slipped down into his back pockets, squeezing at his ass and pulling him closer as Wilson kissed him messily. And who would have thought that offending a bigoted elderly woman would have ever been one of Jimmy’s kinks? But the younger man had spread his legs wantonly, his feet catching at the edge of the bedframe in order to roll up more firmly into House as he settled on his knees. He balanced on his elbows on either side of Jimmy’s chest, his hands tucked under Wilson’s shoulders, his fingers curled into the covers. House rolled his hips down, grinding down roughly as one of Jimmy’s legs slipped over House’s hip, his leg flexing against House’s ass and pulling him down further. And it probably would have been smart for them to have been in the current situation sans their jeans because that denim was feeling _pretty_ tight right about then, his dick pressing up hard against the teeth of his zipper. And it _definitely_ didn’t help that Wilson was canting up into him, pulling House down harder as their hips rocked lewdly together.

House groaned raggedly, dipping his head to nip sharply at Jimmy’s bottom lip, his tongue bullying past Wilson’s teeth to tangle wetly with the younger man’s. One of Wilson’s hands curled in his hair, pulling until their mouths crushed together, their teeth clinking enthusiastically. Jimmy breathed a moan out into his lips, and House hungrily swallowed that sound down, the rumbling feeling of it rattling down into his bones. He pinned Wilson more tightly against the mattress rolling their hips together roughly. Their hips caught together and the hard line of Jimmy’s thick length pressing up against him yanked at his guts hotly. House was unable to keep from rolling his hips downward to Wilson’s once more, rocking and grinding filthily. His palms pulled down against the younger man’s ribs, his sides as House kissed and bit roughly at the flutter of Jimmy’s pulse, chasing the pound of Wilson’s heartbeat down the younger man’s breastbone.

“Lemme rim you,” he muttered breathily, his hands curling around Wilson’s hips as he bit at the younger man’s nipple, smoothed the flat of his tongue against that burn. House dug his nails into flesh through worn denim as he pressed kisses along the skin softened bones of Jimmy’s chest. “Sit on my face.”

The result was instantaneous, like a switch flipping. Jimmy froze under him, his chest shuddering as he looked down at House with wild, anxious eyes.

“Greg,” he breathed out, his tone something like a warning.

House smeared kisses up along Wilson’s skin until he pressed a sucking kiss to the hollow of Jimmy’s throat. “Please Jimmy,” he muttered, kissing his way up the younger man’s throat and suckling softly at Wilson’s bobbing Adam’s apple. House pulled his teeth gingerly along Jimmy’s skin.

Which, apparently, saying _please_ with just a hint of teeth was the key to being granted illicit sexual favors with the younger man as Wilson breathed out a heavy sigh that sounded more like _okay_ than his usual, overwhelming _no._ Especially as Jimmy pushed at him until House rolled off the younger man, letting Wilson slip into the bathroom. And House struggled out of his clothes as quickly as he could, squirming upward on that massive bed toward the pillows. He wallowed down in the quilt as his fingers curled around his dick, pulling his palm upward along the precum-slick skin aimlessly as he waited for Jimmy. That pleasure sparked through him and his cock jumped eagerly against his touch as House watched the bathroom door for the younger man. He leered at Wilson as he stepped back into the bedroom, his clothes wadded up in front of him almost self-consciously. House patted his chest, which earned him a headshake, eyeroll implied, as Wilson dropped his clothes on his backpack and crawled onto the bed.

“This is a bad idea,” Jimmy huffed out as he straddled House’s chest with his calves bracketing House’s head, his hands spread against House’s ribs as he leaned forward, tentatively presenting his ass. House grinned as he smoothed his palms along the outsides of Wilson’s thighs, pulling his nails upward against the skin softly. His hands curled around the younger man’s hips, tugging Jimmy backward.

“How is this any different than having a girl sit on your face,” he grumbled as he flicked the lid on the lube bottle and poured some of the slick on his fingertips. The faint coconutty scent of it was sweet and bright, and he licked tentatively at his fingers. The lube was slick and watery against his tongue, mutedly sweet as it barbed at his tastebuds.

“I can think of a few ways,” Wilson muttered. But House just hummed as he pulled his fingertips along Jimmy’s cleft, even as he bit at the younger man’s ass cheek for his snark. Wilson yelped, his fingers curling against his skin as Wilson’s back swayed and House laid sucking kisses down along the slope of Jimmy’s crease. He pressed his face into Wilson’s cleft, breathing in the time faded scent of sweat and cheap hotel soap of Jimmy’s skin. And somehow it smelled sweeter than Wilson’s time faded scent of sandalwood-lavender bodywash. House bit gently at Jimmy’s skin before he licked his way down toward the younger man’s hole.

He pulled his fingers along Jimmy’s rim, his fingertips catching just barely in the furl of muscle. House pressed a fingertip up into that clench of muscle, tilting his head forward to drag of the tip of his tongue along the point where House’s finger breached Jimmy’s body. And the faint taste of sweat and skin barbed at his tastebuds, making House’s dick twitch as he tilted his face upward more firmly against the curve of Wilson’s ass. He pulled the flat of his tongue along that tight clench of muscle, Jimmy’s rim flexing around his fingertip. House couldn’t help it, as he pressed his finger more firmly into that clench and licked up against his knuckle. The lube was watery and sweet where it glided along his tongue as House curled the slick muscle around his digit and pressed it into the flex of Wilson’s body. His knuckle dug into his lip until House pulled his finger free, pressing his face close to lick at Jimmy’s entrance. And House had forgotten how much he liked flavored lube, if only because it seemed to tamp down his desire to cum. Because Wilson’s skin tasted artificial, almost plasticky despite the washed-out sweet flavor of the lube, or rather because of the lube. But still, the feeling of Jimmy’s fingers curling around his hip, his thigh as Wilson panted, pressed back into his mouth sparked want in him. His dick jumped and quivered, drooling as his tongue pushed up against the clench of Wilson’s body. House groaned, tipping his head upward to suck at the younger man’s entrance, his teeth grazing at the furl of muscle gently. He lapped and sucked at Wilson’s hole, tilting his jaw upward as Jimmy pressed back into him.

“Nnh, Greg,” Wilson panted, his hips tipping backward, pressing against his mouth incessantly. House groaned, his fingers digging down into Jimmy’s hips as he squirmed closer, his tongue drawing random designs against Wilson’s quivering entrance. The younger man whimpered, his fingers curling into House’s flesh as his hips pressed backward restlessly. House curled his tongue, pressing it into the furl of Jimmy’s rim, bearing forward just slightly. The tight clench of muscle against his tongue twisted at his guts because the feeling of Wilson’s body flexing tighter and then relaxing made his dick twitch, precum dribbling from his tip. He pressed closer, groaning as he sucked at that tight furl of muscle, his tongue forcing its way up into the tight clench of Wilson’s body. He twisted his fingers, pressing roughly against Jimmy’s entrance before pushing against the quivering flutter of Wilson’s rim, spreading his fingers slightly so he could lick up more fully into the younger man’s body. He curled his tongue, fucking it up into Jimmy’s ass before letting the slick muscle unfurl, bullying its way further into Wilson’s body in short, rolling thrusts. House felt Wilson’s groan in his teeth as the younger man’s hips jumped back into the heat of his mouth, grinding dirtily against his tongue as Jimmy whined and whimpered weakly. House dug his fingertips down into Jimmy’s inner thighs, pulling the younger man back against his mouth with a groan. 

He sucked roughly at the fluttering muscle of Wilson’s rim, breathing hard against Jimmy’s cleft as his tongue squirmed in as deep as it could go. House dug fingertips down into that clench, tugging roughly at the quiver of Wilson’s rim, pulling the muscle apart so his tongue could fuck up into the obscene clench of Jimmy’s body. He flattened his tongue, pressing it in as far as it could go, pressing his fingers in after his tongue. House’s dick twitched at the salt-sweet taste of his own skin as he licked up around his knuckles, humming softly as he pressed his face further into Jimmy’s cleft so he could wedge his tongue deeper into that sweet ass. And the younger man groaned, his hips pressing back into House’s mouth with a whimper, his hips rocking back before Jimmy twisted away. House lifted up on his elbows, sucking in shuddering breaths as he tried to get his bearings, because his mind was still wrapped up in the tight flex of Wilson’s ass. “What’s wrong,” he slurred, already reaching for Wilson as the younger man shifted, crawling down his frame.

“It’s fine,” Jimmy bit out tersely, his palms smoothing along House’s knees.

“Fine,” he parroted, his hands spreading along Wilson’s hips, his thumbs bearing up along the crease of his spine, pressing to those delightful dimples there at the base of that column of bone. “Jimmy,” House started, only for the younger man to grip his dick, stroking it firmly before sinking down on it. His head fell back with a shuddering groan, his hips jerking up into the spit-wet clench of Wilson’s body, because Christ was Jimmy tight. Rimming had just been part of the whole foreplay aspect; House had still planned on working Wilson open with his fingers until the younger man had been a begging mess. _Then_ he would have fucked Wilson. Not that he was _complaining_ , just the sudden penetration had his orgasm cinching up tight in his guts. “Fuck’s sake Jimmy,” he huffed out, his hips lifting on the instinctual desire to wedge his dick as deep in Jimmy’s body as possible. “Give a guy some warning next time,” he panted as his hands curled around the ex-oncologist’s hips, pulling Wilson more firmly against him with a groan as he gritted his teeth as if that pressure might keep him from spilling into that tight clench. House’s head crushed back into the pillows as Wilson’s hips rolled down firmly against him, grinding their hips together roughly. House’s hands slipped forward, catching in the creases of Jimmy’s groin as he rocked his hips upward sloppily, because Wilson’s ass was wet with spit, with lube and the slide of it was indecent as House’s dick rocked up into that tight flex of brand-hot muscles. He groaned, his back swaying as he pulled more heavily at Jimmy’s hips because he _needed_ Wilson as close as possible. _Christ_ how he needed.

Wilson’s fingertips dug down into his knees, forcing House to shift up onto his elbows. And thank _fuck_ for small favors, because he was treated to the sight of Jimmy lifting off his dick, sliding back down in an acute twist that snatched at his breath, because House could see his dick slipping up between Wilson’s cheeks, pressing into him, and that was unbearably hot. Groaning, House grabbed more firmly at Jimmy’s ass, parting his cheeks so he could better see his length disappearing into the tight clench of Wilson’s perfect ass. And it was _almost_ as good as doggy style, because Jimmy’s back had swayed as his legs spread, his fingers digging into House’s shin and the mattress as his hips did obscene little twists and jerks as House’s dick disappeared up into Wilson’s tight body. House dug his thumbnail down into the swell of Jimmy’s ass, watching the flesh dimple under his grip as the younger man leaned forward even as his hips canted back. And House figured his dick was pressing pretty firmly against Wilson’s prostate if the hitch of the ex-oncologist’s breath was anything to go on. He just barely caught sight of the red smeared along the inside of Jimmy’s thigh, and that tattoo was sexier than he’d ever thought one could be, and he curled his fingers into it. The skin was still a little tender apparently because Jimmy’s hips stuttered, falling down heavily and grinding as if the pleasure could ward off the hurt. Groaning, House dropped his head back and lifted his hips, driving upward into that hot clench more firmly, his fingers bearing down hard enough to bruise where they clasped at Wilson’s flesh.

“Nnh,” Jimmy whimpered, his hips jerking down harder, grinding roughly as he leaned back slightly. His fingers dug into House’s hip for balance, fingertips digging sharply into the softness of his oblique as Wilson took himself in hand. And the sudden clench of muscles had House fucking up into the younger man, as Jimmy’s muscles screwed up tight and pulsed with pleasure.

House groaned, digging his fingers into Wilson’s flesh as his hips stuttered upward. “Jesus Christ Jimmy,” he huffed out. The hindbrain instinct to press the younger man down into the mattress and fuck him sparked in House’s thoughts before he brushed it away. He grabbed more firmly at Jimmy’s thighs, pulling him down tighter as House fucked up into him with a huff. Wilson’s fingertips dug down into his skin as his hips did an obscene twist and grind, and House could feel each tug on Jimmy’s dick, his muscles rippling in pleasure as he ground down against House’s dick and twisted his palm against a leaking cockhead. And the thought of being used for the younger man’s pleasure was hotter than it had any right being, as House groaned and rocked up into the hot grasp of Jimmy’s body. Already his orgasm was sparking along his nerves, licking brightly through his veins and pooling in the cradle of his hips. The muscles of his belly had cinched up tight, quivering with need as he fucked up into Jimmy as best he could, chasing release.

The younger man twisted away once more, and House had to bite back his groan as Wilson threw himself down on the bed, his hips jerking and twisting to dig his length into the bedcovers. “Please,” Jimmy mewled, his ass lifting just barely. And it took way longer than it should have for House’s mind to grind into gear, for him to understand the younger man’s plea as Wilson squirmed against the mattress, fucking his erection against the bunched-up covers. Want sparked heavily down in House’s hindbrain as he folded himself along Jimmy’s back, his hand gripping at Wilson’s hip tightly as he pushed the younger man into place and his hips arched, his dick sliding sloppily along Jimmy’s cleft until his tip caught as Wilson’s entrance. The muscle quivered against him, clenching as he bullied his way past it to bury his length in Jimmy’s hot body. The younger man groaned, his hips pressing back into House’s as the sound tapered out into a weak whimper. His right knee slipped outward, spreading to ease the strain on his thigh as House rolled his hips downward, fucking into the tight clench of Jimmy’s body.

And it was just instinct, as his hips snapped forward neatly, driving his length in as deep as possible as his teeth found the meat of Wilson’s shoulder. He bit sharply at the swell of flesh as he fucked down into Jimmy’s body. Each motion ground the younger man’s length into the bedcovers, the mattress beneath them roughly. Wilson’s fingers dug at his undamaged thigh, his back swaying to take House deeper. And for once, House was almost grateful for the twinge in his thigh, because the way Jimmy was taking him was pretty perfect and would have had him right there on the edge of cumming if it weren’t for that residual pain. His fingers curled harder against Wilson’s hip as he pulled the younger man back into him more firmly, his hips grinding down roughly as he rocked into the tight flex of Wilson’s ass. House groaned low in his chest as he pressed Jimmy tighter into the mattress. The feeling of the younger man squirming and writhing against the covers sent pulses through those already tight muscles, making them clench along House’s length in the best possible way.

He groaned against Jimmy’s shoulder, biting more firmly at the younger man’s flesh as his hips stuttered into that clench. House rolled his hips, fucking forward roughly. Wilson whimpered, pressing back into House as his fingers dug down harder into his left thigh. “Greg, please,” Jimmy gasped out, his hips twisting back into his forward thrust. And how was House supposed to say no to that? His hips jerked forward as he bit and sucked his way toward the crook of Wilson’s neck. He bit at the skin there, roughly bearing teeth down into flesh as his hips jerked forward, reminiscent of some creature in rut as House held Jimmy down and fucked into him as recklessly as his wrecked thigh would allow.

Wilson managed to cram a hand down between his hips and the mattress, but House figured he couldn’t really get a good pull in, because House had pretty much crushed the younger man into the bedclothes. The lack of motion aside, he figured that him fucking Wilson would fuck the younger man’s length into the clench of his hand, which was almost as good. He bit roughly at Jimmy’s shoulder as he ground his hips forward, rocking them downward in sharp, half-aborted thrusts. Wilson made a soft, breathy noise that wrenched at his guts, twisting them up tightly as Jimmy’s hips bucked back into his. House dropped his head to the crook of the younger man’s neck with a soft groan, grinding down heavily. He dug his fingers down into Jimmy’s hip, pulling him back into House. And the grip of Wilson’s body was so fucking _good_ , squeezing his breath out of his chest as House ground down into Jimmy roughly. The younger man’s fingers dug at his ass, his hip pulling him in closer as Wilson rocked between House and his hand, body cinching up tighter as he chased his pleasure. House bore down harder on Jimmy, rolling his hips forward heavily as his fingers curled in the bed sheets, pulling as if the flexing of his upper body muscles could make him fuck the younger man harder.

Their skins were sticking together where his chest pressed to Wilson’s back, and it should have been a little disgusting, that almost clammy feeling. But it just yanked instinctually at his guts, wedging down between the slats of his ribs viscerally and twisting that pleasure up icy hot in his belly. “Gonna cum,” House huffed out against Wilson’s neck, grinding down and chasing the spark that was trying to fucking burn him to the ground.

“Yeah,” Jimmy breathed out, tone screwed up tight as he pressed back firmly against House. All his muscles cinched up, as if he could pull House’s orgasm from his spine with that alone. And maybe he could, because House groaned hard, biting sharply at the crook of Wilson’s neck while his hips hunched mindlessly. His orgasm was _right there_ , if only it would unscrew from the barbs of his spine.

Groaning, House crushed his hips against the swell of Jimmy’s ass, grinding as his orgasm coiled hotly in his guts and spiraled outward in lazy pulses. He jerked into that tight grip of muscles as Wilson’s hips tipped back into his, pressing upward and giving Jimmy enough room to tug roughly on his dick, if the tight clench of the younger man’s muscles was anything to go on. House rocked forward lazily, following that tight grip of muscle. He bit down harder on the crook of Jimmy’s neck, his fingers crushing around Wilson’s hip as he tugged the younger man up into him. Overstimulation sparked along his skin as House jerked down into Jimmy’s muscles, but Wilson was rolling back into him and whining lowly as he stripped his palm along his cock. Each stroke pulled Jimmy’s muscles up tighter along his length, until House was panting, his hips rocking forward as Wilson’s body cinched up roughly around his dick, pushing him into the sharp ache of overstimulation until Jimmy whimpered, his hips rolling forward as he came. All the younger man’s muscles squeezed against his softening cock, pulsing as Wilson squirmed against him, his muscles spasming.

Jimmy collapsed back into the bedclothes with a huffed-out breath, House following after. His weight pressed the younger man down against the bed, and House could feel where the bones of his chest shook with each breath. And even with his cock softening, House was loath to give up that closeness. He wanted to keep his hips crushed to Wilson’s ass, his length buried in the hot clench of the younger man until he went completely soft. But gravity was a bitch of a thing, and no amount of grinding would keep his dick lodged in Jimmy’s clenching body.

“It feels like I’m _always_ in the wet spot,” Jimmy finally breathed out, pushing up with a grimace, pressing hard against House’s body until House rolled off and allowed Wilson to shift out of the wet spot. Their arms pressed together, their skins tacky with exertion and sticking. House pressed closer, crowding up against the younger man as he tipped his head toward Jimmy’s neck. And Christ was he thankful for whatever genius that came up with water-based lube, because while the sensation of dried cum on skin wasn’t the best, it was infinitely more bearable than dried silicone-based lube.

“You deserve it, you bastard,” House huffed affectionately against Wilson’s throat, feeling the rise and fall of the younger man’s back where it pressed sweatily against his chest. He felt more than heard Jimmy’s questioning hum. “You just smeared cum all over that nice lady’s quilt. Shame on you. Now she’ll never accept her twink grandson with open arms,” he joked with a high, quivering tone.

Wilson coughed out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be considered a twink anymore if you’re roping me in with an imaginary grandson.”

“Semantics,” he grumbled, winding an arm around Wilson’s chest. “Plus, you forget I’ve been to your childhood home. Your mom has shown me way too many photos of you in embarrassingly short tennis shorts,” House lilted, groping around on the bed behind him to pull the corner of the quilt over them as their skins cooled. The awkward angle of it meant Wilson was more uncovered, which just served as a reason for House to cuddle even closer. He would have cut himself open and tucked Jimmy in against his ribs and guts if he could’ve, but House figured the drying cum stain on the bedclothes was enough of a mess as it was. “Once a twink, _always_ a twink.”

“You’ve literally asked me to wear those shorts at _least_ twice,” Wilson huffed out, shifting around in the covers before he reached around to grab about House’s arm, pulling it tighter around him. And House went willingly, curving his palm along Wilson’s ribs. Already that bite mark was purpling, striking a possessive chord deep in his chest. “Also, I can _guarantee_ that I didn’t get to pick the uniform.”

“That’s what all the twinks say.”

Jimmy just laughed breathily, leaning back into him, and House could feel that sound as it rattled around the cage of Wilson’s ribs. “Goodnight Greg,” he stressed.

House hooked his chin over Wilson’s shoulder, crowding impossibly closer. “Goodnight Jimmy.”

And Edenton was a little Podunk paradise, just like he had expected. Because the sunset was spectacular where it lit up the sound with vibrant reds and purples, and the boats in the marina were charming as they bobbed and jangled in their docks, and there was a place right on the water that offered up a pretty bitching brunch spread just like he’d figured there would be. But it was more than that, because Jimmy had taken to being an affectionate, cuddly creature down there in Edenton. And House was far more into that than he cared to let on, because Wilson clung to him like a drowning man but without all that needless flailing. Instead, the younger man leaned into him, wound their arms together, curled his fingers around House’s palm in an action dangerously close to holding House’s hand. And Wilson rested his head against House’s shoulder, spread his hand over House’s heart, pressed against him closely enough that House could feel his eyelashes when he blinked. House figured he should be irritated with Jimmy’s neediness, but then the younger man fell into coughing fits or drew in rasping breaths or his voice wheezed tight, _something_ that reminded him they only had so much time left. And alright, so maybe House was just as prone to that neediness as Wilson was.

But all good things had to come to an end. And their last night in Edenton had been a bad one, and the morning didn’t seem to have improved any as Wilson huffed out a wet sigh and rolled over, pressing his face into the pillows sometime about midmorning. He watched as the younger man’s back shuddered with his breath as he relaxed in bed. Of course, House knew that the younger man had trouble sleeping. That sometimes Jimmy coughed himself awake and had to squirm in the bedclothes to keep from feeling like his lungs were filling with liquid. And House watched as Wilson’s back rose and fell sleepily. He pulled his fingertips along the long line of the younger man’s spine, tracing the vertebrae of his backbone. House could feel it as Jimmy’s ribs shuddered wetly, each breath soft and gasping. And how was that fair that House had to suffer through the slow, creeping death of Wilson?

Because that was the only con of them sharing a room, a bed night after night, wasn’t it? Because night after night he fell asleep to the sounds of Wilson’s lungs wheezing sickly.

Huffing out a sigh, House laid down in the bed and curled himself around Jimmy’s body. He entwined his legs with the younger man’s and wound his arm around Wilson’s ribs. He spread his hand along the sullen throb of the other man’s chest, feeling Jimmy’s heart beating behind the wall of his breastbone.

“So, I was looking at the map,” Wilson started, and House could feel his words where they rumbled out of Jimmy’s chest. He hummed noncommittally, pressing his face between the younger man’s shoulder blades as he tightened his arm around Wilson’s ribs. “I think we can pretty much take US-17 South down into South Carolina.”

“And what’d I leave in South Carolina,” House mocked softly, nipping at Jimmy’s skin before kissing his way up the younger man’s spine.

“I’m pretty sure it was your genius idea to go to Florida.”

“Ew,” he quipped as he scraped his teeth over the crook of Wilson’s neck, just over the fading bruise of his bite, hooking his jaw over the younger man’s shoulder. “Why would I do that? You burn.”

Wilson huffed out a soft laugh, relaxing under the weight of House laid across his back. And House could practically feel his exhaustion in the way the younger man breathed. He wondered if his weight felt good, like a human heating blanket of sorts, like Jimmy’s did for his thigh. Wilson cleared his throat roughly, turning his head in the pillows so House could nip at his jawline. “Anyway. There’s a place called Folly Beach, since you’re so into weird names.”

“ _Fun_ names,” House stressed. “Fun names, Jimmy.”

“Right,” Wilson drawled, eyeroll implied like House was being ridiculous. “So, is Folly Beach _fun_ enough for you?”

“Sounds good,” House finally huffed out, folding himself closer to Wilson, tightening the arm around his ribs and pulling the younger man close.

And they continued their downward fall, leaving Edenton heading for Folly Beach, South Carolina. Which felt a bit like a joke when House thought about it, because they’d left certain paradise on the Albemarle Sound for a barrier island that felt a bit like it might be House’s downfall. They had stayed just a night in House, North Carolina just for irony’s sake, so that Jimmy could say he’d been _in_ House when he’d been in House. But that hadn’t even been the weirdest place they’d passed through, because there had been Tick Bite and Deep Run and Chinquapin, which House wasn’t even sure how to fucking _say_ but it felt like it should rhyme. There had been Shallotte, which he liked to say with an obnoxious French accent that made Jimmy smile as they stopped to stretch their legs and eat at a Bojangles. And Jimmy had promised House he was good to keep going as they consulted the road-worn map over wilted French fries and chicken tenders that tasted like burnt oil. Not that it mattered, because they managed to hit Myrtle Beach by sunset, and as dusk fell, House could see the SkyWheel from their window as the giant Ferris wheel lit up.

“Does that count as a bucket list item,” Wilson asked as the SkyWheel’s spokes rippled in bright quivers of light. “Going up there I mean.”

House was almost overcome with the thought of kissing Jimmy at the top of the wheel’s rotation, out there overlooking the dark waves of the Atlantic. Because he wanted that. He wanted his fingers in Wilson’s hair, tugging the younger man in closer to press his lips messily against Jimmy’s as the sun glinted off the waves. Instead, he muttered, “Yeah, I would think so.”

He looped his arm around Wilson’s waist, tugging the younger man closer. Their hips knocked together as House turned into Jimmy, sliding his hand along Wilson’s lower back and knotting his fingers in the fabric there. He pulled the younger man closer to him as House rested back into the windowsill until Jimmy slipped up between his legs. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jimmy breathed out, leaning closer to press a kiss to his lips. The younger man spread his hands along House’s hips, rolling their groins together lazily. “And I think we should move this to the bed.”

Tipping his head up for more kisses, House pulled Jimmy further into the vee of his legs, his hands slipping down to push into Wilson’s back pockets. “Is that so,” he quipped, squeezing roughly at the younger man’s ass as he canted his hips upward.

Wilson grinned sharply at him, nipping at House’s bottom lip before rolling it into his mouth for a hard suck. The younger man ground their hips together roughly before pulling away. House’s jeans were feeling a bit tight as Jimmy slipped away from him, already tugging his shirt up over his head before turning toward the bed. “I guess I’ll just go by myself.” House’s mouth ran dry as he watched the younger man moving to unbutton his jeans.

Which, as it turned out, _that_ was more than enough incentive for House to follow Jimmy to bed.

In the morning, with sweet summer sunshine on his face and Wilson tucked against his side, House woke feeling lazy and sated. He huffed out a sigh and rolled over, pressing his nose into the younger man’s hair while he wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s ribs. The slow inhale and exhale of Wilson’s chest lulled him back to sleep. The next time he woke up, House’s arms were empty, and he felt that emptiness like a sharply bereft ache under his ribs. And was that how he was expected to live his life after Jimmy died? Waking up in a bed far too cold for him having spent the night under the sheets, with pitifully empty arms and an even emptier chest? If so, he wanted no part of it. And his guts twisted up tight, cramping sickly as House fought down the urge to pull Jimmy’s pillow over his face. The door breathed open, and House jerked up onto his elbows, blinking sleepily at the younger man as he breezed into the room.

“I got VIP tickets from the front desk,” Wilson declared as he pushed his way into the room, holding up the aforementioned tickets, waving them briefly in the air as if House could have possibly missed them even where he was laying on the bed. “They were a little pricey, but this way we won’t have to share.”

“How romantic,” House teased as he folded his arms behind his head.

Jimmy rolled his eyes as he sat at the foot of the bed, pulling at his boots before he crawled up the bed. “The ride’s only like ten minutes. I hardly think that’s enough time for even a hand job.” Wilson folded down on his elbows before tipping to the side to share House’s pillow. The younger man slid his thigh over House’s lap, the denim rough against the tender underside of his belly as House’s shirt rucked up over his skin. House spread his hand on Wilson’s thigh, his thumb smoothing along the edge of the ink just barely visible there.

“You’re not up for a little challenge?”

Wilson quirked up an eyebrow while he tried to bite back a smile. But House could see it there where it curled at the corners of the younger man’s mouth. “I’m not entirely sure that’s in my best interest to win,” Jimmy huffed out, managing to cross his arms over his chest. “Proving how fast I can get you off.”

“Awful sure of yourself,” he joked, trying to ignore the way his voice caught in his chest because the look Wilson was giving him was self-assured and smug, which was definitely a good look on the younger man. And that smirk made House want to crush his mouth to Wilson’s, to press him back into the mattress.

“It sounds like I’d just be winning uncomfortably tight pants, which I don’t feel is necessarily a wise idea with children around?”

“Sounds to me like you’re rethinking your ability to win.”

The younger man just leaned in and kissed him, his fingers carding through House’s hair and tugging as their mouths crushed together. Jimmy’s thigh tightened against his groin, putting pressure on his dick in the best way as Wilson licked filthily into his mouth. House groaned, his hand groping over to grab at the younger man’s hip, pulling at Jimmy, more than willing to spend the rest of the day in bed. But Wilson pulled back, pecking a quick and relatively chaste kiss to House’s lips.

“Get dressed.”

Huffing out a groan, House watched as Jimmy rolled off the bed and dug around in his backpack, throwing House’s jeans over to him. The denim landed roughly on his belly, making him curl slightly before he climbed off the bed more subduedly.

The boardwalk was crowded where it snaked along the beachside, even with the sun drifting lower in the sky. Hordes of sunburnt tourists, overly loud families mostly, pushed off that sugar-sand beach with a cacophony of sun-tired voices, dragging umbrellas and coolers. Music blared from the restaurants, and people pushed in and out of shopfronts. There were way too many men in cargo shorts and fanny packs, playing into that stereotype. House had half expected to see twice that amount of middle-aged men wearing socks and sandals, which _thank God_ he’d only seen roughly five dads, or dads he assumed, rocking that look. Which was _entirely_ too many, but that number was at least bearable. The sunshine was hot on his face as he glanced over at Jimmy. And that was how he wanted to remember the younger man, as they pushed through the crowds, because Jimmy’s smile was a slow, lazy thing with his head tipped up into that sunshine. The salt breeze ruffled through the younger man’s hair, pushing dark strands across Wilson’s forehead messily while the sunlight washed that rasp of stubble out of sandy brown into blond. Jimmy’s shirt had started to wear thin on the road, and when the sunshine hit the fabric just right, House could almost see the shadows crawling across Wilson’s skin caused by the bones of his chest. His mouth ran dry, because he knew the way those shallow valleys tasted, the way they felt against his tongue. He had to look away, because Jimmy had been kind of right that it wouldn’t do to be around a bunch of kids with any sort of erection.

“Let’s go get a beer,” he grumped, already heading for the nearest restaurant.

Standing in line for a couple of beers, House realized suddenly that maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to challenge Wilson. After all, Jimmy hadn’t made captain of the varsity tennis team without a bit of a competitive streak. Because the bar was crowded enough that no one thought twice about Wilson being crowded up against him, and the dusky golden light cast enough shadows that no one looked too closely at them. Not to mention Jimmy was _subtle_ about it, his ass pressing back into House’s groin with a teasing pressure that made him bite back a groan. The younger man’s hips swayed seemingly in time with the music filtering through the bar, but there was that perfect ass in worn denim brushing across his dick again and again and again.

“You don’t even like Jimmy Buffett,” House breathed out, squeezing his nails into the meat of his palm as if that would help stay the arousal pooling lowly in his guts.

That pressure increased as Wilson turned to look at him, the younger man’s hip crushed desperately close against the hardening line of his cock. And Wilson’s voice was low and husky in his ear, his breath hot on his skin as he crooned along with the chorus line. “Come Monday, it’ll be alright. Come Monday, I’ll be holdin’ you tight. I spent four days in a brown LA haze. And I just want you back by my side.”

House pushed past him with a huff. “Line’s moving.”

Wilson just laughed, following after him.

A beer each later, Jimmy was pulling him through the crowds toward that monstrosity, rearing up above the boardwalk and the beach. A long line wound away from the SkyWheel, full of boisterous children pulling at hands that held them still and irritated parents trying to call for order. Wilson dragged him past the line, heading for the ticket booth. “Line’s back there,” House quipped, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. But Jimmy just ignored him and continued dragging him onward.

“VIP means _no_ line,” Jimmy chirped out, already fishing the tickets out of his pocket as he grinned at the young woman behind the glass of the ticket booth. “We have VIP tickets,” he said with a smile while slipping them under the glass.

“Oh good,” she quipped out with way too much enthusiasm. “You’ll need to go to that booth over there and Sara will get you all set up.” Her smile was way too bright, and House felt like his returning smile was more of a grimace before Wilson dragged him over to the secondary booth.

“Your tickets are good for two flights,” the attendant chirped as she pulled open the door on the gondola. The tint on the glass was dark, but House wasn’t entirely sure it was dark enough to hide them away, which pretty much told him that Jimmy would forfeit their game. But Wilson turned a dark, hungry gaze on him. “Please enjoy your trip.” Her smile was bright as she gestured to the little car.

“Oh, we will. Thank you,” the younger man huffed out with a smile, motioning House in first.

The little car was tastefully furnished, and the dual couches looked comfortable. House crushed up against the outside wall, expecting Wilson to sit across the car from him, but the younger man just crowded up against him, his hand curling hotly around House’s thigh. The pressure of Wilson’s fingertips bearing down into the tenderness of his inner thigh was hotter than it had any right being. The gondola lurched upward and stopped, presumably to fill another car. House doggedly looked out the window, feeling more than seeing when Jimmy turned toward him slightly as if to look out the windows. Only the younger man’s hand slipping into the vee of his legs said differently. House huffed out a breath, his fingers digging down into the arm of the couch as he did his damnedest not to react. The car lurched upward and stopped again, not that House really cared because Jimmy’s palm was cupping his cock through his jeans, rubbing teasingly. He swallowed hard, his legs spreading just a little more as Wilson leaned over him, closer to the window as if to see better, but really pressing down more firmly against his slowly filling dick. His spine was weakening, everything in him wanting to slump back against the couch and let Wilson do whatever he wanted to with him.

The Ferris wheel slowly filled, the Atlantic sprawling out under them brilliantly blue and glimmering with sunshine. Seafoam tipped waves rocked against the sugar-white sands, breaking over sunburnt tourists who laughed loudly. Not that House could be bothered to care, because Jimmy had cupped him firmly, his nails pulling up over the teeth of his zipper. He bit at the inside of his cheek, squinting his eyes tightly shut as he fought the urge to roll his hips upward. And thank Christ for Wilson being predominantly left-handed as the younger man pulled a complicated motion to undo his fly one-handed, which was sexier than it should have been.

“You do this often,” House managed to bite out as Wilson’s hand snuck into his jeans, cupping him through his boxers. Jimmy’s palm was hot through the thin fabric, his fingers slipping under his sac and pulling the fabric tight against his sensitive skin. House hissed, his hips rolling upward slowly because there was that lazy burn of arousal coiling along his bones. Wilson pressed his palm down harder against that roll; long fingers curling around House’s half-hard length, his dick twitching as Jimmy squeezed.

“What are you expecting me to say,” the younger man muttered lowly. “That I used to sit on the outside seat on the bus so I could give out hand jobs?”

Deft fingers slipped through the slit of his boxers, nails whispering against his skin teasingly. “That’s a pretty mental picture,” he wheezed out. “Explains why you were so popular.”

Jimmy’s hand disappeared, and House just barely bit back the noise of disappointment. His dick twitched, and he squirmed in his seat, trying to stiffen his spine as he forced his eyes open. That close, Wilson’s eyes were impossibly dark, his pupils just beginning to blow wide. The sight of Jimmy’s tongue swiping against his palm barbed in House’s guts, making his dick jump eagerly in his boxers, hardening to only be trapped by the pull of fabric. It was more attractive than Wilson had any right being, his attention out the window as his tongue slid once more along his palm. That spit-slick hand slipped into his boxers, Jimmy’s fingers curling around his cock and squeezing roughly. A low moan rattled out of his chest as his hips rolled upward into that loose grip. The confines of his boxers, his jeans were too tight, not allowing Wilson enough pull but that was perfectly alright, House decided. Because Jimmy’s hand was tightening around the head of his cock, twisting lightly and stroking downward roughly over the ridge of his glans. House bucked his hips upward, chasing after that tight clench and huffing out a soft moan.

The wheel started its slow rotations, the gondola swaying just slightly. And Wilson seemed to take that gentle rocking motion as a cue for how to stroke him. House squirmed in his seat marginally as Jimmy’s grip around his length loosened, twisting against the flare of his cockhead. Again and again, that touch winding House up tighter as Wilson’s fist just barely ghosted over him. House managed to count roughly four turns before pulling to a stop. The younger man gave him a sharp-edged smile before Wilson’s grip around his dick tightened, his palm stripping along House’s length mercilessly, his foreskin pulling over his cockhead time and time again in a sharp barb of pleasure that hooked in his ribs. House wheezed, his hips jerking up to fuck into the clench of Jimmy’s hand. It was difficult for House to pay attention to the outside world, as Wilson stroked him roughly, easing off every time House got close. Huffing out a low moan, House rolled his hips upward. His pleasure was coiling hotly along his spine, pulling tighter and tighter. House wondered how much time had passed, but then Jimmy slowed, his grip pulling almost lazily against his aching dick. The obscene slick of precum and spit curled hotly in his guts as Wilson almost absentmindedly stroked him. House gasped roughly, his hips jerking upward after that twisting grip. He grabbed at Jimmy’s back, his fingers digging down into Wilson’s muscles as his hips fucked up into the tight clench of Wilson’s fingers.

Huffing out a moan, House’s hips cinched up tight as Wilson twisted his palm roughly along the twitching length of House’s dick. The feeling of precum dribbling from his cock, sliding down his length, collecting along the ring of Jimmy’s fingers curled around his dick yanked at his arousal. “Jesus Jimmy,” he gasped out, his hips rolling upward. His orgasm was already surging slowly through him, building way down low in his guts as his hips tipped forward.

And it wasn’t fair how unaffected Wilson looked, as he stared out the window – never looking at House even as he stroked him firmly. House dug his fingers down harder into the couch, a whine building in his chest as his hips rocked upward into that tight clench of fingers. His eyes squinted shut because there was his orgasm once more coiling sharply in his lower stomach, yanking all his muscles tight. And if he had expected the younger man to ease off once more, it didn’t happen. Which was for the best, because the Ferris wheel was lurching, indicating the end of the ride he guessed, and Jimmy was pulling out all the stops as he stroked House quickly. Every twist, every squeeze of those tight fingers yanked at his need to cum, pulling a low and reedy sound from his lungs without his consent. House’s hips jerked up, his dick jumping as Wilson pulled his thumbnail over his leaking slit, and apparently after roughly twenty minutes of wind up, that was all he needed as House huffed out a moan and spilled over Jimmy’s fingers, his hips rocking upward as the younger man stroked him lazily through it.

His boxers were wet, uncomfortable almost immediately, and he grimaced as Jimmy pulled his hand out. House sighed, letting his head fall back against the sofa and looking up at the metal roof of the gondola as he sucked in deep breath after deep breath. That languid afterglow steeped into his bones as he tried to calm the pound of his heart. House swallowed hard, glancing out the windows to where the ocean was glimmering. Three stops he guessed, four at best to get his shit together. But his mind was fucked out and drowsy, all his thoughts white noise haze as he focused on his breathing.

“Ready to go back to the hotel room,” Wilson asked lowly as he got to his feet, wiping his palm on his jeans nonchalantly, simultaneously adjusting his dick in overly tight denim and getting rid of any mess. House stared at Jimmy’s crotch a second longer than he should have until his mind ground into gear, and he glanced up at the younger man. And Wilson was looking at him like he’d take House apart, fuck him through the mattress and hold him tight after.

“Duh,” he huffed out, rushing to redo his jeans as the Ferris wheel began drifting downward once more, grimacing at the tacky feeling of cum already drying against his skin. House had just managed to get his zipper up when their gondola lurched to a stop and the door swung open.

It felt like both the shortest and longest walk back to the hotel, and in the miraculously empty elevator, Jimmy boxed him into the corner and ground their hips together, dropping his head to the crook of House’s neck and nearly sucking a mark there. He was just getting into it, gripping tightly at Wilson’s shoulders with his breath hitching out of his chest, when the elevator stopped at their floor, doors dinging open brightly. The younger man practically dragged him down the hall to their room; Jimmy struggled with the room card before finally bullying their way inside, already yanking at his shirt before the door had fully closed. Which didn’t that make him feel good? Because it was a firm stroke to his ego that Jimmy still couldn’t wait to be with him.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make Wilson wait a bit, because _he_ was the one who’d to walk back to their hotel room with cum and spit drying in his boxers, rubbing itchily against his tender skin and clumping in his pubic hair. Of course, waiting wasn’t exactly something that House was good at when it came to the younger man, especially if the ex-oncologist was in some state of undress. Because that was a good look for Jimmy, House couldn’t help but admit as he came to the open space of the room and found Wilson bent over pulling at the laces of his boots. House couldn’t get over there fast enough, desperate to smooth his palm along Jimmy’s back. The warmth of Wilson’s skin barbed way down in his guts, and he pulled his fingernails against Jimmy’s spine slowly. The younger man turned into him, wrapping his arms around House’s hips as he stood, pulling House closer to him. Their hips swayed together as Jimmy tugged him toward the bed. And how could House say no to that? House’s arms looped around the younger man’s neck as he walked after Jimmy. “Oh,” he quipped. “So, the Ferris wheel was just a precursor?”

“Mm,” the younger man hummed as Wilson’s head dipped to the crook of his neck, his lips and teeth pulling along his pulse. “Are you raising objections?” Wilson’s hands slipped along the waistband of his jeans, his fingers catching at the button of House’s fly. Jimmy’s thumb pressed in, threading the button back through its hole, and the sound of zipper teeth pulling apart was particularly loud in the quiet room as Wilson looked up at him.

“To you fucking me,” House scoffed out, like Wilson was being ridiculous just asking. He fought the urge to push Jimmy back on the bed. “I never say no to that,” he grumbled, carding his fingers up through the younger man’s dark hair at the back of Wilson’s skull. House pressed closer to him, grinding their hips together firmly. Jimmy pressed soft kisses along the line of his throat, sending shivers trembling along his spine, raising goosebumps in their wake. The sharp edge of teeth scraped down along his pulse as Wilson’s fingers dug into the opened denim of his jeans, pushing them down over House’s hips marginally in a teasing gesture. Rough denim rasped along his skin as Jimmy’s fingers bore down into his hips, squeezing roughly before Wilson stepped away and headed for the bathroom. “You just gonna leave me out here to play with myself,” he teased, pulling at his shirt.

“Would you prefer that,” Wilson called from the bathroom. There was the sound of running water as House kicked out of his boots. He shoved his jeans down roughly and stumbled his way out of them.

“Don’t be stupid,” he huffed out quietly as House folded back down on the bed, shimmying upward so he could rest his head on the pillows. He barely caught the bottle of lube when Jimmy tossed it to him as the younger man peeked out of the bathroom with a pointed look. It was way too early for him to entertain thoughts of getting hard again, but his dick twitched slightly in anticipation at that sharp gaze. At least the residual pleasure of his orgasm had dwindled down, so House wouldn’t have to deal with the lovely but sharply edged ache of overstimulation. To say he was surprised when Wilson came back from the bathroom with a damp washrag was an understatement, because the younger man still had his jeans on for Chrissake, and how was he supposed to fuck House with his _jeans_ on? But Jimmy just tossed the rag on House’s stomach before finally, _finally_ , unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down before climbing onto the bed. The tenting of the younger man’s boxers had subsided to some degree, but that movement was still undeniably sexy as Wilson crawled across the bed.

The younger man slotted between House’s legs, pushing them a little wider before picking up the rag. “Gonna clean me up just so you can make a mess of me again,” House scoffed out, even as Wilson pulled the washcloth along the grimy skin of his groin.

“I’m confused,” Wilson quipped. “So, you _don’t_ want me to clean you up? Because you always bitch about cum and lube.”

“I thought you were gonna fuck me,” he huffed out, shoving himself up onto his elbows to glare at the younger man, who smiled at him undeterred.

“Not a big fan of you sticking to me,” Jimmy muttered as he pulled the washrag along House’s skin. And at least the rag was damp with warm water because he wasn’t entirely sure he would have had that foresight. But Wilson tended to be more considerate than House, so _of course_ he would think to warm the water first. House mentally rolled his eyes at the younger man, feeling fond and irritated all at the same time. And while some quip had barbed at the tip of his tongue, House swallowed it down as he watched Jimmy toss the rag onto the bedside table and reach for the lube.

The snick of the bottle opening was almost as indecent as watching that slick drizzle over Jimmy’s fingers, because the sight, the sound of it wrenched viscerally at his guts. It sent arousal licking along his bones, and his dick definitely twitched at that. House dropped his head back with a groan as Wilson ran lube-slicked fingers along the length of his cock, spreading that watery substance along his skin before Jimmy gripped him and gave a lazy, aimless stroke that had House whining. “That’s not fucking,” he hissed out between gritted teeth, even as his hips rolled upward after that touch.

“Oddly enough, I thought you might _enjoy_ this,” Wilson mocked, his fingers tightening and twisting just there along the flare of his glans, and how was House supposed to _not_ fuck up into that touch. His head fell back into the pillows because that banked pleasure from before was being stirred back into a burn that curled icy hot up along his spine. It pulled until all his muscles wound up tight, squeezing a moan from under his ribs as his hips jerked. And the thin fabric of Jimmy’s boxers really wasn’t hiding away much from where the younger man had bent over him, his erection resting hotly against the inside of House’s thigh. House squirmed just to feel that pretty cock slip further up his thigh, twitching as it went. His own length twitched sympathetically, harder than it had any right being for getting its second hand job in roughly an hour.

“It’s good,” he bit out, hips twisting impatiently. “Fucking would be better.”

Wilson breathed out a soft laugh, but dutifully pulled his hand away, reaching once more for the lube. That motion sparked want deep down in House’s guts, pulling his legs further open. Slick fingers slipped along his cleft almost aimlessly before blunt fingertips caught along his rim, tugging just barely at the furl of muscle. House groaned and twisted his hips down, because really Jimmy had way too much fucking patience. His fingers dug down into the meat of Wilson’s shoulders, pulling and curling in entreaty. He huffed out a noise of impatience that tapered off weakly as Jimmy pressed fingers up into him, his rim clenching against that initial burn. His nails bit into the younger man’s skin, pulling at Wilson as House swallowed hard because _Christ_ it was good. There was something to be said for the almost rushed feeling of Jimmy’s fingers pressing against his muscles, like Wilson had pulled both of their senses of patience long and thin. Like Jimmy couldn’t be bothered to wait anymore. Which was fine with House because he’d been done waiting somewhere about the time Wilson had picked up the lube. He could suffer through somewhat rushed prep. Especially if it meant Jimmy fucking him sometime in the next five minutes.

House twisted and tipped his hips back into that touch, trying to hurry it along. Wilson dipped down and bit at his throat, soothing the sharp sting of teeth with softer kisses as the younger man huffed against his skin. “You’re so impatient.”

“And you take too long,” House grumbled, decidedly ignoring the reedy quality of his voice because Jimmy had decided that was the perfect moment to press roughly against his prostate and light him up from the inside out. His hips jerked back on instinct, grinding down on Wilson’s fingers as pleasure licked up through him, bright and sharp. His dick jumped, drooling precum as his muscles clenched against the younger man’s clever touch. “You’re not even naked,” he breathed out, squirming on those rucking bedclothes because how was that fair. House definitely didn’t whine when those fingers pulled free, his body clenching around nothing pitifully. He managed to pull his eyes open, regardless of him never having noticed them shutting, and glared at the younger man. But Jimmy was far busier with pushing his boxers down, doing some kind of twisting shuffle to kick them away. And House figured he could forgive the younger man his transgression. Just that once, though, because Wilson was reaching for the lube once more. The sound of the bottle opening, of Wilson’s slick palm stripping along his length yanked viscerally at House’s guts, making him squirm impatiently.

Jimmy curled a hand along his left thigh as he leaned forward, his free hand spreading in the sheets by House’s head. With Wilson leaned over him, pressing him down into the mattress, House forgot to breath just a bit. He dug his fingers into the younger man’s shoulder, squirming his hips back, which earned him the twist of a smile as Jimmy’s hips tipped forward just barely. His rim fluttered at that threat of Wilson breaching him. And House took it back; he wasn’t going to forgive the younger man because Wilson was being a fucking _tease_. He gritted his teeth and glared up at the ex-oncologist, curling his nails against Jimmy’s skin. “I swear to God, if you don’t get on with it,” he huffed out, earning him a soft laugh as Wilson dipped his head to nip at his throat.

“So impatient,” Jimmy mocked, and whatever House was thinking about replying with scattered out his ears as the younger man drove his hips forward. His back swayed, hips dipping back as that lovely dick slid in slow and smooth to wedge itself in his guts. House might have whimpered as Wilson bottomed out, rocking his hips up against House’s ass. The younger man’s fingers dug down into his flesh as he ground down, tucking his face into the crook of House’s neck and groaning lowly. And because Jimmy was courteous, he held still while House squirmed, his body clenching down on that thick length. His fingers curled against Wilson’s skin as House’s hips jumped backward, pressing harder into the younger man’s weight. His nails bit down into the meat of Jimmy’s shoulder, tugging as House squirmed.

“Thought you were gonna fuck me,” House huffed out, pulling at Wilson while he pushed his hips back.

Wilson nipped at his neck before pushing up onto his elbow far enough to peer down at House. The younger man hummed, his mouth twitching with amusement before he hiked House’s leg further up and Jimmy’s hips drove forward. And the pace Wilson set was hard and deep but infuriatingly slow. House whined and twisted, pushing his hips back into that forward thrust. It drove the breath from House’s lungs and pulled his hips back all at the same time, because Wilson stroked against his prostate infuriatingly perfectly, offering up an obscene little grind that had House almost swallowing his tongue. His dick jumped against the pressure of Wilson’s body, the slide of his cock’s precum-slick skin along Jimmy’s stomach yanked at House’s guts, making his hips jerk up against the weight of the younger man. He _maybe_ whimpered because Jimmy was hitting his prostate pretty religiously, and it was twisting his orgasm up sharp and tight in his guts. House pushed back into Wilson’s forward motion, pressing his hips back into that thrust.

Which Jimmy took, perhaps appropriately, as a clue to fuck House harder, faster. To press House into the mattress and fuck down into him roughly. House’s head fell back into the pillows with a low groan, his hips jerking back with a whine because Jimmy’s dick was sliding across his prostate pretty spectacularly. That sensation twisted his pleasure up tight, cinched it tight along his spine. And it was a startling thought that he might cum just from Jimmy fucking into him roughly, from his cock sliding against Wilson’s soft skin. He'd done it before, but usually after being worked up for a bit. Not _just_ from Wilson holding him down and fucking him, from that slight friction on his length. Which, not for nothing, Jimmy knew how to fuck House best apparently, as the younger man’s hand slipped down on his thigh, fingers digging down into the meat of House’s ass. Wilson pulled his hips up further, forcing his back to sway more, allowing for that thick length to get deeper. House might have made an embarrassing noise, because it felt a bit like the younger man was trying to crawl into his body dick first in the best possible way, making his body clench in pleasure. His fingers dug down into Wilson’s back, crushing the younger man against him as his hips jerked. And with his length sandwiched between their bellies, it was easier for that pleasure to cinch up in his spine. Because his cock was sliding against Jimmy’s skin, and the indecent glide provided by precum snarled hotly in him. It wrenched at his orgasm, pulled at his hips, and clenched all his muscles tight.

“Nnh,” he whined, nails pulling along Wilson’s back as House pressed down, because he was _right there_. Wilson groaned softly against his neck, shoulders lifting in response to that sting even as his hips drove forward harder. House wasn’t above rendering Jimmy’s back a bloody mess if he’d keep fucking him like that. And to prove his point, even if it was only to himself, he raked his nails along the younger man’s back once more. In retaliation, Jimmy dug his nails down into House’s ass, spreading his legs to get better purchase to fuck House harder. Which he hadn’t really thought was possible, but that pace was pretty punishing, squeezing that whine from his chest once more. “Nnh. Jesus Jimmy,” House breathed out, digging his nails in as his back swayed further in some eons-old entreaty for harder, faster, _more_.

His orgasm slammed into him with the force, and expectancy, of a fucking train, hurtling along his spine and crushing the air from his chest. His hips jerked back, rocking up to grind his dick against Jimmy’s stomach, twitching as he smeared his spend there. And Wilson fucked him through it, fingers curling tightly against House’s skin as if to keep him right there as the younger man chased his pleasure in the clamp of his body. Overstimulation sparked through him, hot and bright as House dug his nails in harder, scrabbling at Wilson’s back. Pleasure-pain snapped at his nerves because it was right there at _too much_ , lingering on the razor’s edge of _not enough_. Wilson’s hips crushed up against him, grinding as the younger man came, biting roughly at House’s throat as he fucked forward almost lazily. And that was a languidly spectacular feeling, like his spine had been fucked out of him, like House had been made boneless as he slumped under the younger man and tried to catch his breath. He smoothed his hands along Wilson’s back, internally preening at the feeling of raised skin, tacky and hot to the touch.

Jimmy’s weight was hot and heavy where it pressed down on him, his breath damp against House’s throat. Wilson huffed out a sigh and something that might have been an explicative before he pulled out. The younger man shifted up, snagging the washrag he’d tossed onto the bedside table. Wilson cleaned him up before he tucked in against House’s side, his breath rasping against House’s shoulder. The younger man shuddered out a sigh, pressing closer. House rolled onto his side, facing Jimmy and slipping his wreck of a thigh up over Wilson’s hip. Wilson looked up at him, eyes already blinking sleepily at House before tucking his face in against House’s throat.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Jimmy huffed against his skin, throwing his arm over House’s chest.

House just hummed, pushing his fingers through Wilson’s hair. He tried not to pay too much attention to the younger man’s breathing, listening to it wheeze and squeeze out of Jimmy’s chest as the younger man fell asleep. But it was difficult not to, because the air conditioner was way too quiet, and Jimmy’s breathing was way too loud. He slipped his hand over Wilson’s shoulder, spreading his fingers between the younger man’s shoulder blades to feel the slight shudder of Jimmy’s ribs. House swallowed hard, pressing his face into Wilson’s hair. “Got all the time in the world, Jimmy.”

It was a relatively short drive down from Myrtle Beach, but they took their time with it.

And Folly Beach was _definitely_ going to be his downfall, because Wilson had rented them a room in a brand-new hotel right on the ocean, and House was really getting used to Jimmy lounging on the balcony in just low-slung sweatpants as he sipped shitty hotel coffee. It drove him a little crazy, watching the rising sun’s muted oranges and pinks lick across Wilson’s bare chest. And House could almost always forgive the alarm clock for cruelly reminding him of the ungodly hour for that sight alone. Not to mention, most days it dragged him from bed just so he could run his palms, his lips against Jimmy’s bare flesh, feeling the contrast of cool air and blood-warmed skin out there on the balcony until he pulled Wilson inside and back to bed. And who cared that the beach somehow made him a morning person, because Jimmy could almost always be convinced to lay in bed and doze, sated and lazy. Because House definitely could get used to the smug uptilt of Wilson’s lips as the younger man pressed kisses along the line of his throat, their legs thrown together, and their bodies stuck together with sweat. There was something about the briny scent of the ocean mixing with the road-worn smell of Jimmy’s skin that pulled at him viscerally.

But in that sooty time around midnight, when his mind ground itself awake, House listened to the soft, wet rasp of Jimmy’s breathing. He focused on it overly much, where it puffed languidly against the sensitive skin of his throat, at the crook of his neck. He pulled fingers slowly through Wilson’s hair, turning toward the younger man as the shadows drew long. House had always gravitated toward the younger man, hadn’t he? Just a flower tipping its head toward the sun.

But the bad thing about suns was that they didn’t last forever. They glowed bright and hot, collapsed into themselves and consumed everything. They lit up the world, then burned it to the fucking ground.

House had always assumed Jimmy would outlive him. That the younger man was right there at the cusp of sainthood for just being his friend, let alone for staying through so many trials and tribulations. And really, Jimmy should have stayed a sinner. Because all the good saints died horribly.

That probably there, fucked up God saw to it.

In his sleep, Wilson curled tighter around House, shuffling closer to tuck his face more thoroughly against House’s neck. He pulled his fingers through that soft, dark hair. In the dark, it was easier to be a soft thing. To let his legs tangle loosely with Jimmy’s, to pull the younger man against his chest. His breathing fell into time with Wilson’s as he pressed his face to that soft, dark hair. As his arm slid over Jimmy’s shoulder, spreading his palm between the younger man’s shoulder blades, feeling the slow flex of skin over muscle and bone.

“How would you feel about Colorado,” he whispered softly into the quiet dark of the room. Wilson huffed against the hollow of his throat, pressing closer as his arm banded around House’s side and tightened. He could feel the wetness saturating Jimmy’s breathing, and House thought of lake-cooled air and the crispness of autumn hooking in the younger man’s chest. “They legalized pot there, you know,” House murmured, pushing his fingers through Jimmy’s hair. Wilson hummed softly against his throat, the younger man rubbing his face restlessly against House’s skin in his sleep. The beginning growth of stubble along Wilson’s jaw rasped at his flesh in the best way. “Maybe a cabin on the lake. We could share a bowl in the morning,” House muttered, scratching his nails softly against Jimmy’s scalp. “Watch the sun come up, have some pancakes when the munchies hit.” He pressed his nose against Wilson’s hair, let himself curl around the younger man. “Something with a potbelly stove and heated floors and quilts on the sofa. We could just be a couple of backwards sunbirds,” he whispered softly, closing his eyes against that want.

And in the morning, House woke up to empty arms. He blinked himself sleepily awake, peering through dusky shadows in search of Jimmy. The hotel rooms were _never_ that big, but in tourist heavy cities, they felt even smaller as if the builders had crammed as many rooms as possible into each bright and shiny new hotel they created. But still there was that itch of concern, like maybe Wilson had passed out in the bathroom or gone to get ice but really had just run off to die alone. House shifted up in the wrecked bedcovers, scrubbing a palm over his face as he glanced at the other bed. It was still perfectly made, covered in their dusty backpacks and leathers. Their boots tangled together haphazardly at the foot.

House glanced at the clock before dropping himself back onto the bed with a groan. Before his so-called retirement, House had had an aversion to being a functioning adult before nine, and that definitely hadn’t changed since they had run off into the sunset together. And those dalliances at sunrise didn’t count because they always went back to bed in the end. “Christ Jimmy,” he grumbled softly, flopping over onto his stomach to press his face into the pillows. “Come back to bed,” House told the seemingly empty room.

“You were the one who said something about Colorado,” Wilson huffed out from somewhere by the balcony doors if House had to guess, because the lights were still off. Those shitty hotel curtains were thin enough that Jimmy could probably see the map through the light pushing through fabric.

“You were dreaming,” he huffed, working his face under the pillows to get to the cool sides.

The bed dippied just there at his hip, and Jimmy’s palm slid along the back of his thigh, rasping the thin sheet along his skin. “How do you know _you’re_ not dreaming now?”

“If _I_ was dreaming, my bed would still be holding a hot, naked oncologist.” House rolled his head on his neck, peering blearily with one eye at the younger man. He could see Jimmy’s bare chest, the tired slump of his shoulders. House bit at his bottom lip, even if the younger man couldn’t see, as he waggled his eyebrows salaciously.

“Does ex-oncologist count,” Wilson asked, folded himself down along the edge of the bed. His fingers toyed at the edge of the sheet, pulling at the fabric teasingly. House fought down the urge to jerk the sheet away from his body in invitation.

“I mean, you’re the one with the intimate knowledge of the Make-A-Wish foundation,” he quipped, twisting in the sheets a little to roll onto his side. Jimmy’s hand spread hotly along his hip, burning at his skin through that thin fabric. “You tell me.”

Jimmy’s fingers knotted in the sheet, tugging at it just slightly until the sheet wound up pooling around his navel. “Hmm, tough call,” Wilson muttered, leaning down to nip lightly at the point of his shoulder. That hand slip upward, sliding along from fabric to skin, rasping at the muted furrows of House’s ribs. “I mean, I _think_ they’d say we could make the acceptation just this once. But who can say for sure?”

He hummed in thought as he flopped onto his back, more than willing to let the sheet slip almost indecently low on his hips. “That sounds a little bit like fraud,” House teased, already reaching for Wilson when the younger man pulled back out of range.

“So, no qualms about putting in a request at the organization whose age limit is eighteen. But qualms about whether or not ex is an acceptable option.”

House huffed out an exasperated noise, pulling a pillow over his face. “Jimmy,” he groaned. “You’re killing the mood here,” he grumbled, moving the pillow just enough to glare up at the younger man, who looked way too smug at having ruined the moment.

Wilson huffed out a laugh as he leaned forward to bite sharply at House’s nipple, before folding himself along House’s body, pulling the pillow away as he went. And House figured he could forgive the younger man, just the once, as his fingers dug into Jimmy’s hair and pulled the younger man’s head up for a kiss. Wilson’s lips parted as House licked filthily into Jimmy’s mouth. House’s fingers curled in the younger man’s hair as he tipped his head back so their tongues could tangle wetly. Jimmy crawled up his form, his legs spreading over House’s hips as he pressed House down into the mattress with a filthy kiss. House grabbed at Wilson’s hip, pulling the younger man closer in encouragement until Jimmy was pressing him down heavily into the covers. The hot, weighted feel of Wilson resting against him sparked that hindbrain instinct to submit. The younger man hummed softly as he bit at House’s lips, folding forward to press his forearms to the mattress on either side of House’s head. And the younger man’s gaze was impossibly dark as he peered up at House through his lashes.

“So, you don’t want me to fuck you then,” Jimmy breathed out, leaning down to nearly press his lips to House’s. The sharp edge of Wilson’s teeth caught at his bottom lip. Want clenched down hotly in House’s guts and he tipped his head up, trying to press his mouth more firmly to Wilson’s. But Jimmy pulled back just far enough to avoid that kiss, the corners of his lips curling upwardly coyly.

“I always want you to fuck me,” House groaned, flopping back into the pillows. He rolled his hips upward, seeking contact. The sheet wasn’t anywhere close enough to thick enough to soften the growing interest between them, especially as Jimmy finally gave in and ground their hips together. House was acutely aware of Wilson’s hardening length where it pressed against the crease of his groin, and it _definitely_ sparked a more urgent sense of need in him. He grabbed at Jimmy’s back, his fingers digging down into flesh and muscle, down to bone it felt like as House tried to pull Wilson impossibly closer. And the younger man pushed up against him impatiently, dipping his head to nip and suck along House’s neck.

“Can you maybe _not_ mangle me this time,” Wilson grumbled against his skin, hand skimming down to pull the sheet out from between them. House winced, because Jimmy had given him shit for roughly a week about _that_. Because Wilson’s back had looked a bit like a scratching post, but the younger man had done a pretty spectacular job of fucking House, so he had a hard time being truly apologetic.

“I make no promises,” he quipped, leering up at the younger man because it really had been pretty fantastic sex. House pulled his nails lightly down along Wilson’s chest.

Jimmy raised above him, giving him a rather pointed look as his fingers curled around House’s wrist, stopping his hand’s progression. “I _will_ hold your hands down,” Wilson huffed out. And House was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to feel like that threat was more of a stupid hot promise that twisted want down into his guts. But that tight grip around the delicate bones of his wrist sparked something down in him. Because he might have been barely taller than Wilson, but all that height was in his legs and leant him absolutely zero advantage when they were horizontal.

“Now it sounds like _you’re_ making promises,” House breathed out, rolling his hips upward slightly.

Wilson gave him a look, his head cocking to the side slightly as his eyebrows twitched upward in amusement. “You’re into it,” the younger man muttered, his mouth twisted with a bemused smile.

“We’ve talked about kink shaming,” he scoffed, halfheartedly glaring up at Wilson. “You judgy bastard.”

The younger man rolled his eyes. “I’m not kink shaming you.” Wilson’s head tipped back slightly in a universal sign of exasperation before he gave House another pointed look. “I just feel like if you want me to hold you down and fuck you, that’s probably something we should talk about.”

“Feels pretty straightforward to me.” House _really_ didn’t want to talk about it.

Which earned him a sharp look, Wilson’s mouth twisting wryly. “Yes, because that sounds so logical when I say it aloud. I just hold you down and fuck you. Of course. Doesn’t sound like a potential police report or anything.” Wilson rolled his eyes because the younger man was made of sighs and eyerolls.

House squirmed under Wilson, pulling his hand free to pinch at the younger man’s hip. “Don’t make it into _that_ kind of fantasy.” Jimmy’s fingers curled sharply around his wrist, tugging House’s hand away from his skin with a look of warning. The squeeze of that grip shocked a soft noise out of his chest. And he probably shouldn’t have felt that in his guts, but Wilson was always infuriatingly polite and considerate, and it was hotter than it should have been. He had _really_ thought that he was done having sexual revelations at his age, but dammit if Jimmy didn’t drag them out of him.

Silence pulled around them, with Wilson just staring down at him with that critical look he got when he was overthinking things as he released House’s wrist. The younger man’s eyebrows furrowed marginally, and House huffed out an exasperated sigh. “You’re making it weird,” he grumbled with a faux pout, slumping back against the pillows. He had expected Wilson to huff and roll his eyes; he had _not_ expected Jimmy to lean forward and grab up his wrists, pulling them up near the edge of the mattress above his head. He was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be so hot, that feeling of being pinned in place, but Wilson was hot and heavy as their bodies pressed together roughly. And House refused to make a noise of surprise, but the younger man squeezed sharply around his wrists as his hips ground down lazily, and he couldn’t exactly be blamed for his vocal cords not listening. Or maybe it was his lungs, because the sound he _definitely_ didn’t make was something wheezed out, like a tight and reedy whine. And that close, Jimmy’s eyes were impossibly dark, but those flecks of almost-gold reminded him of sun-warmed whiskey.

“I was trying to figure out if I was just supposed to fuck you open or what,” Wilson muttered, his breath soft and hot on House’s lips. And he hated how those words made his heart pound. Not that he could think about it overly much, because Jimmy’s hips were rolling down languidly against his, twisting lazily. Those soft lips were skimming along his throat, followed by teeth. Yeah, he was _definitely_ into that he realized as his dick twitched. And damn Wilson for being such a people pleaser because it’d just be another reason why it had always been Jimmy. Because the younger man would hold him down and fuck him just like House wanted; with that single-minded determinedness that always felt a bit like a scorched earth policy.

After all, Wilson had been ruining him for anyone else since day one.

He swallowed hard, tipping his head back with a soft noise to allow that hot mouth better access. And House was pretty sure that submission wasn’t supposed to be that easy, but with Jimmy’s weight bearing down on him it was easier than it should have been. His joints softened and his spine melted as he let himself sink into the mattress. “Dealer’s choice,” he quipped, overlooking the breathiness of his tone as Wilson’s hips rolled down with more intent. There was that filthy slide of sweat and precum, Jimmy grinding his hips down indecently, rocking their lengths together in a way that wound up that passion in House’s guts. He bit back a soft noise, his hips rolling up best they could before Wilson sat back abruptly, letting go of his wrists.

And God how House hated the smirk blooming on the younger man’s face. Hated it enough to kiss it off Jimmy’s stupid mouth. But before House could reach for the ex-oncologist, Wilson had rolled off his hips and was presumably looking for the lube. “Thinking on your front would be better,” Wilson called carelessly over his shoulder, pawing through their backpacks. Those words barbed in House’s guts, because if Jimmy was thinking about it, he had plans for it. He had to swallow down that needy whine.

House was acutely aware of Jimmy watching him as he rolled over, tucking the pillow up under his bent right thigh and squirming to get comfortable. The squishy form propped his hips up, left enough space between him and the mattress to not crush his dick against the bedclothes. Stupidly, it twitched in anticipation, because when Wilson pressed him down into the mattress and fucked him, that would crush his erection down into the covers. The dribble of precum along his length made House wiggle his hips, rolling them downward briefly. And while he didn’t want to make it easier on the younger man, House went ahead and stretched his arms over his head impatiently, laying his hands over one another and lacing his fingers together. The snick of the lube bottle made his fingers curl down into the covers as he pressed his cheek more firmly against the pillow. The bed dipped between his legs as Jimmy climbed between House’s thighs, running a slick hand aimlessly over his hip.

Admittedly, House had expected Wilson to be a bit gentler with him, but that was a surgeon’s hand closing over his, pressing them down into the mattress with the brunt of the younger man’s weight. He made a startled noise, tugging at his hands purely on instinct. Not that it helped, because that grip was strong and sure, firm to the point of unyielding. Unfairly perfectly like Wilson had been pinning House down and fucking him roughly for the better part of twenty years. Jimmy’s fingers had managed to curl into the palm of his bottom hand while his thumb hooked over the outside of his top wrist, and he fucking _squeezed_. House was pretty sure he felt that pressure in his dick because his length jumped, drooling precum. And Wilson just hovered over him. Which no, that wasn’t right. Because hovered was a mildly irritating gesture, but not exactly threatening. But the way the younger man had to have been curved over his prone form, the pressure on his fingers was definitely something that screamed of Wilson being firmly in control of the situation. House had a sinking suspicion that he’d bare his throat all too willingly if Jimmy only asked him.

Jimmy must have thought the same because there were teeth right there at his pulse, bared in something resembling a smile before the younger man’s voice was in his ear, soft and husky. “You’re sure?” House was pretty sure he felt those words more than heard them. And just to be a brat, he tugged at his hands, his shoulders raising up to press against Wilson’s chest just to see if Jimmy would force him down into the covers. But Wilson was his usual considerate, bastardly self, and immediately let House go and curved away from him. “This is why we needed to talk about it,” Jimmy huffed.

“You’re such a girl,” House grumbled, trying to keep the pout out of his voice as he slumped back against the mattress in a clear sulk. “We don’t have to talk about everything.”

“Yeah, and you’re a child. Acting out to get your way instead of using your big boy words.” Wilson mocked, swatting lightly at his ass and leaving a smear of slick, earning him an indignant glare over House’s shoulder. House hated it when Jimmy got cheeky. Well, not really, but he could _pretend_.

“Would you just hold me down and fuck me like you promised,” he snarked as House pushed his arms under him and shoved upward with a glare in the younger man’s direction, his tone a little breathier with exasperation than he would have liked. But as all the playfulness slipped out of the edges of Wilson’s shoulders, House figured he could forgive his traitorous voice. Because that dark, hungry thing sparked in the younger man’s gaze, pushing at the edges of his pupils in dilation like some primordial instinct had been stirred to life with that petulant demand. Jimmy’s mouth twisted just slightly, like he had gritted his teeth, as Wilson hummed low in his throat in consideration. House felt that soft noise corkscrew down into him, tightening his guts in an unintentional clench of anticipation.

“Sure thing,” the younger man quipped almost conversationally as Wilson pushed his fingers up gently through the hair at the back of House’s skull. But then his grip tightened right there at the edge of cruelly as Jimmy grabbed at his nearest wrist and pulled that arm out from under him. House made a noise of surprise as Wilson drove him, albeit somewhat gingerly, down into the bedcovers. His cheek pressed roughly into the pillow as Jimmy rocked his hips against House’s ass and Wilson tugged his arm over to collect House’s other wrist. The younger man squeezed his wrists together sharply, putting pressure on the joints as Jimmy held him down in the covers. And Wilson’s hips pressed forward against him, the younger man’s dick wedging into the cleft of his ass and sliding as Jimmy rocked his hips forward. Wilson pulled his hands above his head, and that sensation drove his breath from his lungs, his back curving instinctually and pulling his hips up into a better position. How badly House wanted to hate how easily his body went, but with Jimmy bullying him into place it was a little difficult.

He tried to swallow down his whine, but found the sound knotting in his throat. House huffed out a breathy sound, pulling Wilson’s mouth along the line of his throat. The hand at the back of his head slid down to squeeze roughly at the back of his neck, to continue down to press into the mattress beside House’s chest. “You’re such a brat,” the younger man huffed against the crook of House’s neck, sounding mildly exasperated and overly fond as he shifted up off House marginally.

“You like the challenge,” House countered, feeling his guts coil tightly at the snick of the lube bottle opening, and how had he missed Jimmy bringing that to bed? The anticipation was killing him, and he twisted his head against the pillow, trying to look past the stretched joint of his shoulder to see what exactly the holdup was. Which was the moment Wilson chose to pour lube along his cleft, just an uncomfortable line of cold slick along his ass that made him squirm.

“It’ll warm,” Jimmy teased mildly, already pulling his fingers through the watery liquid and pressing his fingertips down against the furl of his rim. And House didn’t particularly want to think about what it said about him that he was _really_ enjoying the press of Wilson’s weight against his wrists. Even the numbing tingle there at his fingertips as the blood flow was restricted was a good thing, making his cock twitch wetly where it was pressed down in the covers. And if he hadn’t wanted to think about that, he _definitely_ didn’t want to think about what it said about his proclivities that he enjoyed the initial burn of those fingers pressing into House’s hole roughly. He barely managed to bite back the moan that wadded at the base of his throat, his hips pressing upward into that touch. His fingers twisted into the covers, his spine curving slightly while he tried to get his left knee under his body better. Wilson squeezed around his wrists, boxing up against him and rocking his hips down. House hated how want punched down into him, twisting his guts up sharply at the feeling of the younger man rocking down against him, working him open roughly.

Those fingers pulled free from the tight clench of his body, and his muscles twisted up pitifully around nothing. Jimmy smoothed his palm up along House’s haunch, his flank and back down before that touch disappeared. The younger man’s mouth pressed to the crook of his neck as Wilson smeared the tip of his cock along House’s cleft, the younger man’s hips tipping forward. House made a somewhat embarrassing noise as his hips lifted, pressed back into Jimmy’s. And it probably hadn’t been enough prep, haphazard as it was, but far be it on House to pump Wilson’s brakes. Especially if it meant the ex-oncologist would just hold him down and fuck him like he meant it.

House bit his lip against that hiss at the initial burn as Wilson drove his hips forward. Because it definitely hadn’t been enough prep, but that burn was just there at _too much_ in the best possible way. He whined, his back curving up against Jimmy’s weight as Wilson’s hand planted in the covers beside his chest. The feeling of the younger man bearing him down into the mattress was hotter than it had any right being. The pressure pulled his hips back as Wilson rocked down into him, forcing that big dick down further into House’s guts and sending want burning through him as the younger man’s hips ground down against him.

Admittedly, Jimmy’s grip had loosened into a more of a lackluster clutch, his fingers barely curled around House’s wrists as Wilson’s hips pressed down against his roughly. But it was still a good thing, as Jimmy’s weight held him pinned in place and the younger man forced his length in deep. Not to mention it wasn’t like House was trying to pull his hands free anyway. Wilson’s face pressed into the crook of his neck, just breathing for a moment. Then the younger man’s knees spread, tucking up gently against his wreck of a thigh and pushing his left out more. Wilson fucked down into him roughly, crushed against him, rocking and grinding as Jimmy held him into the covers. The breathy moan filtered past his teeth before he could stop it, and House bit at his lip to keep any more embarrassing noises from slipping free. But Jimmy was so _good_ at fucking those noises out of him, squeezing them out from under his ribs with the force of his hips. He was pretty sure his spine couldn’t bend up further, but that didn’t stop him from trying because Wilson was railing his prostate pretty spectacularly, and House would do whatever it took for the younger man to keep fucking him like that.

Jimmy’s grip tightened around his wrists as he ground down, his hips doing something obscene against his ass as Wilson bit softly at House’s ear. That hot, damp rush of breath against the curls of cartilage sent goosebumps scattering down his spine. “Nnh,” House whined, pressing back into the weight of Wilson. Not for the first time did he lament his thigh being a mangled mess of nerves and muscles, because House was pretty certain that doggy style with Jimmy would shatter his world apart. Wilson’s chest pressed against his back, pressing him down into the covers a little more as his hips drove forward. The sound of skin-on-skin twisted House’s insides up, yanking at his pleasure and pulling it down through his spine sharply.

He ground his hips down into the covers, smearing precum against the rough rasp of a cheap hotel blanket. That pleasure twisted up tight in his guts, cinching up all his muscles tight as his hips canted back as if that would get the younger man to fuck him harder. Jimmy’s fingers squeezing roughly around his wrists was, embarrassingly, what yanked his orgasm free. House pressed his face against the pillow and groaned, grinding his hips down into the mattress harder as his dick jumped against that contact. And he could almost overlook Jimmy pressing him down into the wet spot because the younger man was fucking him roughly through it. House was pretty sure the smear of cum against his skin wasn’t supposed to be that attractive, but there it was as Wilson drove his hips forward sharply and twisted.

The younger man bit at his shoulder, his hips jerking forward stutteringly as Wilson came. There was that lazy grind of hips as Jimmy wedged his dick deep in House’s guts, length flexing against the clench of his muscles. Wilson pressed a soft kiss to his stretched shoulder, presumably against the red of teeth marks. His fingers clenched around House’s wrists as the younger man slumped against him, pressing open-mouth kisses along his skin. And admittedly it was a bit hard to breathe with Wilson’s weight bearing down on him, but it felt good, possessive in the best way.

“So,” Wilson started, his chest shuddering with his breath as he rested against House’s back, still pressed in between his legs, hand still curled around House’s wrists. The younger man’s weight was hot, heavy against his back. “Colorado then,” he breathed out questioningly, turning to tuck his face into the crook of House’s neck. He hummed softly as Wilson finally released him to fold his elbows up on either side of House’s chest. And Wilson was getting heavier by the moment, pressing down on him like that, but how was he supposed to say no to a cuddly Jimmy? Not to mention, Wilson holding him down and fucking him had been his idea anyway. _O_ ne of his better ones, honestly. One they would _definitely_ be revisiting.

“Sure. But you’re on clean up duty,” he quipped, wiggling his hips a little to make his point known. “Now get off before you stick.”

Wilson huffed a snort of laughter against House’s throat, pressed a kiss there before giving a lazy rock of his hips and pulling out. Jimmy climbed off the bed, heading for the bathroom.

The next morning after checkout, they trailed upward, because as it turned it, minus a few exits and getting lost around a place called Whetsell before getting back on track, it was pretty much a straight shot up I-26 West to get to Kentucky. At some point, they were supposed to switch over to I-75 North, but House was pretty sure that didn’t happen until they were in Tennessee. They stopped for the night in some place called Irmo, which had kind of a modernized Mayberry feel to it. And really, who came up with some of those town monikers? Because whoever was naming those places had an affinity for the word _wood_ , because there had been Wildwood and Westwood and Heathwood all before they’d stayed over in Irmo and then there had been Anglewood just on the outskirts of Spartanburg, followed by Willow Wood and Woodfin.

And by the time I-26 West turned into I-40 West, the landscape had shifted into a patchwork of forests and croplands, dotted with pockets of civilizations that House hesitated to actually call towns. As far as he knew, they were more like farming communities or cult compounds; something. All he knew for sure was that it was a _lot_ of green. And for a place with so many fucking trees there was an alarming lack of towns or cities with the word _wood_ in it.

They stopped for gas somewhere up past the North Carolina-Tennessee boarder in a place that House wasn’t exactly certain quantified as a town because he hadn’t seen a sign for it, but the place had a charging station for electrical cars, so he was a little confused. The pump had just clicked off when Jimmy came bounding out of the gas station and looked up at him, bright eyed and way too giddy for a middle-aged man with cancer. His fingers curled around House’s elbow, pulling just barely. “We should do the zipline.” Wilson slapped the pamphlet lightly against his chest. House, begrudgingly, took the pamphlet. And it was full of glossy, vibrant pictures of people barely connected to wires strung through the trees, falling into the green of a mountainside. Which _definitely_ didn’t look like his idea of a good time. He glanced up at the younger man curiously because Jimmy looked breathless in his excitement.

“You want to jump off a fucking mountain.”

Wilson pulled the brochure away from him, unfolding it all the way and laying it over the gas tank like some sort of tour guide. “It’s close,” Jimmy continued, as if _that_ was the issue House had with the whole thing. “Just across the road and up a ways. But _apparently_ you get to head up the mountain in a four-wheeler. And there’s six zipline runs, four sky bridges. _And_ rappelling at the end.” Jimmy looked up at him expectantly, and House wondered if the excitement was something the Boy Scouts had fostered in Wilson, because all of that sounded infinitely less fun than finding a place to hole up for a couple of days so they could fall into bed together.

“What, no camping,” House mocked softly.

The younger man blinked at him dumbly before turning his attention to the small map included on the pamphlet to indicate how to get there. “I mean, we could probably camp out? It looks like it’s right inside the national park.” Jimmy folded up the brochure. “There are probably campgrounds there, but also bears so,” Wilson trailed off, giving House a look.

“So, no camping then,” House finished for him.

Jimmy smiled at him, something delighted and teasing. It sparked a glimmer in those dark eyes, as he waved the pamphlet in House’s direction. And how was House supposed to say no to that? He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine. We’ll go ziplining,” he said, pulling a face because he’d never been all that great at saying no to Wilson before the whole cancer thing, but since it he was apparently terrible at telling Jimmy no.

Although, in hindsight, maybe he should have found a way. Because one Vicodin, over two hundred dollars, and roughly fifteen minutes later, House found himself in an ATV on a pitted dirt road listening to one of their guides ramble on loudly. Chuck and Terrance were opposites in about every way, because Terrance was a soft-spoken young black man in sensible cargo shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. And was Chuck, was . . . well, Chuck was wearing flannel, because of course he was. It went with the sharp twang hooking there in his lazy drawl and dark beard scuffing along his jawline. “We’re heading up the mountain, and then we’ll drop for about half a mile.” The frame of the cart shuddered and rattled as if it might just fall apart as Chuck hit a particularly deep hole particularly hard enough that even the other guide winced. House grabbed at a bar of the roll cage, gritting his teeth. The Vicodin had _definitely_ been a good call. He glanced over at Wilson as they roared along. “Takes about two hours,” Chuck hollered over the engine.

“Sounds great,” Jimmy yelled back before turning a bright grin on House. His eyes glittered with excitement, and House remembered why he couldn’t say no. Because Wilson looked like a kid on his first Christmas when he was finally old enough to know what Christmas was all about. Which was ridiculous because Jimmy was Jewish. So, maybe more like a Jewish kid invited along by the Baptists next door to experience the joy of Christmas. And maybe agreeing to the whole ziplining adventure hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

Of course, House had that thought _before_ Chuck was leading them across a fucking rope bridge that was sturdy enough but was also suspended _well_ above the ground. House gripped tightly at the top rope trying not to look down as he trailed along after Jimmy and Chuck, rolling his eyes because Chuck was rambling on about Cherokees or something. And while he wasn’t paying too much attention to what was being said, House could admit their guide was pleasant enough to listen to, if only because the other man managed to avoid sounding overly like a redneck. He hummed _Indian Reservation_ to himself to the bassline of Chuck’s voice. House almost didn’t notice the bridge stiffening into a platform, until Wilson’s hand caught hold of his elbow and pulled him to a stop. Of course, he’d have to make it past Chuck to topple off the stand because the platform was surrounded by fencing except where the bridge ended and the zipline run began. Two thick cables just swept out in nothingness, dipping down toward the treetops. And House was just _expected_ to put his faith in a harness made of what was essentially seatbelts? Just expect that those bits of straps and metal would keep him from plummeting to the mountainside, splattering on rotting leaves and compacted dirt?

House shot a look at Terrance, who just offered him a small smile. “No worries, man. It’ll be fine.” He stepped into House’s space, tugging at his harness. “We’ll strap you in; we’ll get you out. We’ll even do all the thinking for you when it comes to braking.” And _that_ made House feel a little better, even as he looked over to where Chuck was tugging at Wilson’s harness, explaining something rather loudly.

“How do you deal with him,” House huffed out, hoping he sounded more amused than irritated because he was quite literally putting his life in Terrance’s hands. But he wasn’t a big fan of Chuck putting his hands all over Jimmy.

Which, if the fond smile in Chuck’s direction was anything to go on, House figured the other man hadn’t been too badly offended. “You get used to it.” And House wondered if that was what other people saw when they asked Wilson about him, about their friendship – that fondness there that was instinctual.

Chuck ambled over to them, clapping Terrance on the shoulder and holding for perhaps just a second too long. “Y’wanna go first, or me?”

“I’ll go,” Terrance said softly, already making his way to the edge of the platform, strapping himself into the pully system that definitely didn’t look strong enough to hold the weight of a grown ass man. But there went Terrance, swooping out over the forest. And fucking _Christ_ he was expected to follow suit? But it was a little late to second guess himself, because Chuck was leading him over to the edge of the platform, already hooking House into place beside Jimmy. And Wilson was already hooked up, his dark eyes glittering in what House took to be equal parts anxiety and excitement. At the end of the run, what looked like fucking _miles_ away, Terrance had made it to the other platform, looking like a vaguely person-shaped blob on a popsicle stick raft.

“Don’t wanna say it’s as easy as falling but it kinda is,” Chuck was saying, grinning brightly at his own perceived humor. “You just,” he shrugged as he patted the system of pullies and handles hanging from the cable, “hang on and go. When you step off the platform, kinda curl your legs up and let gravity do the rest. You ready?” House _definitely_ wasn’t ready and was just about to say so, when Wilson whooped and practically jumped from the platform, just trusting the harness to hold. House felt his stomach plummet a little as Jimmy’s body dropped and careened forward, the pully racing along the wire. The younger man’s arms stretched out, his head tipping back as his laughter bubbled out of his chest as Wilson flew forward.

“You ready,” Chuck asked, smiling encouragingly. And House was glad for the Vicodin because it had numbed the edges of his emotions a bit along with that niggling pain in his leg. That little pill after so long without had left him floating in an almost pleasant headspace. So, he shrugged, pushing off the stand and squinting his eyes shut. The feeling was one of weightlessness, like flying he guessed. Because the wind was screaming past his ears, pushing against his cheeks as his lungs huffed out a noise of surprise. He clung to the handles, trying to keep as calm as possible while his mind so kindly reminded him that gravity was pulling him off the side of a fucking _mountain_.

“It’s incredible,” Jimmy yelled back at him, those words pulling House’s eyes open. And it was. When people spoke about the awe-inspiring glory of nature, House wondered if they meant the Smoky Mountains. Because the mountainside was a curious mixture of emerald, flecked with russet and gold and crimson, like a probably there, less fucked up God had flicked a cigarette, sent embers scattering across the mountainside. And it should have been too early for autumn to taint the trees, but there it was. A gentle reminder of time’s slow passing having sped up. Because time had _always_ been a lazy thing, right until they’d been given a limited amount of it.

And as long as House didn’t look directly down – which he did once, only to be treated to treetops screaming past in one continuous blur of green – he could appreciate it. He could appreciate the beauty of nature, of the mountainside painted in what seemed like a million shades of green, and of sharp-winged birds dotted against the brilliant blue of the sky. But more than that, he could appreciate the sounds of delight that Wilson’s chest was offering up as he hurtled downward. Because Jimmy was laughing, his head tipped back as the wind pulled that sound long and thin. House’s chest tightened at that because that sound made the last half hour totally worth it. Didn’t matter that his leg was bitching mutedly through the Vicodin from the bumpy ATV ride or the trek across the first aerial bridge. And he could do five more leaps of faith if Wilson kept enjoying life like that. He could climb across a few more bridges stretched between treetops if Jimmy kept on living like he wasn’t dying.

Which, that mindset only lasted as long as the Vicodin. Because by the fifth time he’d thrown himself off a treetop platform after Wilson, his hip had picked up a low grind and his thigh had begun to ache. And whatever Chuck was rambling on about, House had no time for, because he was kind of just waiting for the right moment to sneak out the Vicodin in his pocket. But Jimmy kept glancing over at him, eyes bright with childish delight as he parroted little tidbits of knowledge for House’s benefit. Which _almost_ made him feel bad for having gotten over the whole mountaintop tour a little over an hour ago, because Wilson was having so much fun. But honestly, it was pretty hard to give a fuck when it felt like there was ground glass rasping along the inside of his thigh. The final run couldn’t come soon enough, because House would willingly throw himself off that treetop if only to get some relief. Because at least when he was rushing through the air, his leg didn’t have to hold his weight.

“So, you’re just gonna lean back and kind of hop downward,” Chuck explained as they crowded together on the final platform, making little scalloped gestures with his palm. Terrance was already on the ground, was already tugging at his harness and stepping free from the run. “The pulley will keep you from just dropping down; you’ve got to get the right angle. Just little hops. And Terrance will get you out the moment you land.” His smile was bright as he peered at them. “Who wants to go first?”

Of course, Jimmy stepped up, his dark eyes glittering. House bit back the irrational sense of jealousy as Chuck tugged at Wilson’s harness, helped secure the younger man to the final cable. As he watched Jimmy disappear over the side of the platform, a bit more tentatively than when he’d just been throwing himself off a platform into thin air, House promised himself he’d try to have more fun. Because it was almost over, and he’d hate to be _that_ asshole. The one who did nothing but complain to his dying best friend about time wasted and hurts endured.

“Ready,” their guide asked, tugging at House’s harness gently, even though that easy motion pulled at House’s thigh. He hummed, watching as Chuck spun the carabiner’s lock into place. “Just little hops.”

“Right,” House muttered, stepping to the edge of the platform. “Little hops,” he parroted, turning his back to the mountainside. Eons-old hindbrain instincts screamed at him, because there was something a little different about jumping out into thin air when he couldn’t see where he was going. But House had already suffered through a little over two hours of trusting the company’s equipment, and he figured he could trust it once more – if only to get his feet back on solid ground. Rappelling was marginally easier than he’d thought it would be, and House found he could get the desired motion by mainly using his left leg, leaving his right to just rest. He kept reminding himself it was just a few more feet, an ATV ride back down the mountain, and a short ride to their next resting place.

So, House could grit his teeth and push through.

The second his feet touched the ground, the very _moment_ Terrance unhooked him and allowed him to step free, House found himself with an armful of Wilson, so his willingness to endure might have been worth it. His hands slipped around Jimmy’s hips instinctively as Wilson slotted into his arms regardless of the awkward harness and being in the presence of a couple of good old boys. The younger man crowded up against him, his hands finding their way impossibly under the helmet and into House’s hair as Jimmy kissed him frantically. Their helmets bumped together, softening the crush of Wilson’s lips against his marginally, but House still could only hang on for the ride, his hands tightening on Jimmy’s hips. Seconds stretched past, slow and languid, and House could feel the younger man’s smile. He pulled back, almost smiling at that sudden affection, because how could he ever say no to that. And that was how House wanted to remember the younger man. Because Wilson’s cheeks were pinked with exertion, with windburn and laughter. And he looked so wonderfully _alive_ in that moment, with a joyous smile cut deeply into his mouth, and his eyes squinted shut tightly as if to live just a little longer in that moment. When Wilson’s eyes finally opened, they glimmered with tears, happy ones if the grin was anything to go on. And the younger man pressed his lips to House’s once more, softer. Something so tenderhearted it made House’s heart bloom with searing affection.

“I love you,” Jimmy breathed against his lips, kissing him again. His heart plummeted into his stomach and shattered against his lungs at the same time. But anything he would have said in reply was ruined, snatched away as their guide dropped down roughly beside them. And Jimmy twisted away from him, exclaiming excitedly at Chuck. “That was fucking incredible!” Wilson grabbed at the other man’s biceps, bouncing on the balls of his feet while a laugh bubbled out of his chest. Not that House was paying too much attention, because Jimmy had just said _that_ – like it was nothing.

And House heard those words rattling inside his skull the entire, albeit short, trip down the mountain.

He curled his hands into fists if only so he wouldn’t reach out to Jimmy. Because how was it fair that those three little, one-syllable words had shaken him so thoroughly? How was he expected to keep acting like things hadn’t irreparably changed between them? House swallowed roughly, because those three little words were pooling slickly in his mouth. He tried to remind himself that Wilson was dying, tried to convince himself that Jimmy had just said those words platonically. But he’d _felt_ those words in the press of the younger man’s lips, in the curl of his fingers, in the crush of his body.

Hope bloomed hotly in his stomach, climbing the slats of his ribs and creeping into his lungs and squeezing his throat tight.

Christ how he _hoped_.

And hope was a dangerous thing House tried to remind himself as they got back on the road, but he kept hearing those words echo inside his mind.

 _I love you_.

They managed to find a cabin for rent somewhere north of a place called Zion Grove, and it was more romantic than House wanted to let on. Especially because by then, his leg was hurting pretty fucking badly, the Vicodin having completely worn off and leaving the ache a sharp-edged thing. But it had kind of been worth it because the cabin was tucked into the wilderness, overlooking the mountains. If he could overlook the giant carved bear in front of the tiny front porch, House could admit it was the kind of place he’d want them to rent in Colorado.

“There’s a hot tub,” Wilson told him, as if he could read House’s hurt in the lines of his face, as he unlocked the door and pushed inside. And inside was, well a little lackluster for how much they had paid for a three-night stay. But the cabin had come with a fully stocked fridge of cooking essentials and a nice bottle of Tennessee whiskey. And there was, apparently, a hot tub. So, House figured they could overlook the outdated appliances in the kitchen and the worn-down sofa and the fucking deer head over the fireplace.

“Let’s get naked then,” he quipped as he tossed his backpack onto the sofa, shrugging out of his jacket. House dropped down in a chair to undo the laces of his boots, kicking them away and peeling off his socks as Wilson went outside to prep the hot tub. Having finally discarded his clothing, he limped through the cabin, rubbing at his thigh roughly. The zipline course had maybe not been such a great idea, or so his body told him. But Tennessee had been a good choice, because Jimmy was already in the hot tub, his head tipped back against the side and his eyes closed, his clothes piled on the deck. The trees crowded in around the cabin, thinning out as the backyard plummeted downward into something closer to a bluff. And House could overlook the hurt in his thigh for that, as he climbed down into the hot tub with the younger man. His feet and shins tangled up with Wilson’s as he seated himself across from the ex-oncologist, watching as Jimmy’s mouth tugged upward in a soft smile. The hot, bubbly water soaked into him immediately, soothing his aches.

And if the cabin, in itself, hadn’t already kind of established a romantic feel, that moment did. Because dusk was falling lazily, dusting the forest in fading light and lighting up fireflies in the backyard like floating fairy lights. The only thing missing was a nice bottle of alcohol. And how was he expected to stay away? Especially knowing he could kiss Jimmy any time he wanted. So, House closed the gap, pressing his knees to the younger man’s as he stretched over Wilson’s lap to press a kiss to his mouth. Jimmy’s legs spread for him to get closer, and House planted his hands on the seat, leaning more firmly into Wilson. Their kisses were lazy things, just the slide of lips and tongues against one another until Wilson’s hands grabbed at his hips, tugging him closer. He knew from experience that Jimmy was perfectly content just sharing kisses, feeling each other up like a couple of teenagers, but that felt like a bit of a waste of the current setting.

“Pretty sure sex in a hot tub is a bucket list thing,” House muttered between sipping kisses, feeling Jimmy smile into them as the younger man tipped his head up.

“Oh, is it? Because it sounds like you’re angling for sex.”

He hummed into the kiss, nipping at Wilson’s bottom lip before pulling back. “How many more opportunities are you gonna have to fuck in a hot tub in the mountains?” Those dark eyes peered up at him for a moment before Jimmy pushed at his hips.

“Alright, move.”

“What happened to your manners,” House mocked, leaning more firmly into Wilson, pressing kisses along the line of his throat.

“So, you don’t want to fuck me in a hot tub in the mountains,” Wilson asked, slumping back against the side with a mock disbelieving look. Which, as it turned out, was a pretty good way to get House to move much quicker than he would have thought what with the bum leg and all. Because he practically fell back across the hot tub and looked expectantly at Wilson.

“Chop, chop,” he huffed out. “Water is terrible lube.” Which earned him a rather rude hand gesture as Wilson climbed out of the tub. Water glimmered on his skin as the younger man headed inside, and House watched him go before shoving his hand under the water, curling his fingers around his dick, and tugging. It took Jimmy longer than House had expected, as he stroked himself aimlessly and got closer to orgasm than he would have liked. Tipping his head back against the side, he squeezed roughly at the base of his dick because it wouldn’t do for the whole thing to be over before it began. He sucked in a ragged breath. The door to the porch slid open, but Jimmy’s hands were suspiciously empty as he approached the hot tub. “Did we leave the lube in Asheville?”

Jimmy climbed back into the tub, moving to straddle his thighs as his hands slipped over House’s shoulders, curling over the side of the hot tub. “You mean the _water-based_ lube?”

“Fuck,” he huffed out, his head falling backward because he had _totally_ forgotten. “So, just give me a few more minutes to soak and then we can move this to the bedroom,” House muttered, leaning up to kiss and nip his way up Jimmy’s throat.

The younger man hummed, pressing closer. “I thought we were fucking in the hot tub.”

“Water is a _terrible_ lube,” House reminded him, even as Jimmy ground his hardening length against House’s belly. His hands slid over Wilson’s hips, curling and clutching, pulling the younger man more firmly to him. House tipped his head back for a kiss, leering up at Jimmy. And when Wilson kissed him, he tasted like whiskey. He huffed out a laugh as Wilson pressed his forehead to House’s, smiling brightly down at him. “You got distracted with the alcohol and didn’t even share?”

“I got distracted while improvising,” Jimmy muttered, his tone pitched low enough that it yanked viscerally at House’s guts. “Boy Scout,” Wilson reminded him, biting softly at House’s lower lip. House slipped his hands up over Wilson’s hips, digging his fingers down into the meat of the younger man’s ass and pulling him closer.

“Oh?” His tone definitely wasn’t supposed to be that breathy, but that was hardly his fault, because Jimmy was spreading his legs, pressing closer to House. And while water was absolute _shit_ as a lubricant, it was doing pretty remarkable things for letting his cock slide up against the crease of Wilson’s ass. House squirmed his ass closer to the edge of the seat so he could pull Jimmy closer at a better angle, his length pressing against the younger man’s cleft. And that slick glide _definitely_ wasn’t water-based lube as his hips gave an experimental roll upward. Wilson grinned down at him, head dipping to nip at House’s bottom lip.

“There’s coconut oil in the kitchen,” Wilson huffed out, wiggling his hips.

And that snatched at House’s lungs, stealing his breath. He squeezed roughly at the base of his dick as he swallowed roughly, thinking way too hard about the younger man fingering himself open. Jimmy gave him a heated look as he leaned over House, pressing him back into the edge of the hot tub. Really, he just had to hold his cock for that initial press against Wilson’s entrance, which was for the best because he _needed_ to hold onto the younger man as Jimmy bore down on his length. House gripped at that lovely ass, trying not to rush Wilson as he sunk down, agonizingly slow, onto his dick. Wilson’s forehead pressed to his, the younger man’s pretty mouth parted in a gasp. House’s fingertips dug down into the meat of those cheeks, pulling at them to encourage glide. In the end, House was unable to keep from rolling his hips upward, seeking out that tight clench of Jimmy’s body. Because while fucking Wilson _any_ way he could get the younger man was a phenomenal thing, there was always _something_ about Jimmy riding him. It was tighter, deeper, _something_ that made it somehow better.

“Christ Jimmy,” House coughed out, curling his fingers further against Wilson’s skin. He could just feel the slick of the body-warmed oil against his fingertips, where the younger man had spread it along his skin. And House would have paid obscene amounts of money to watch that. To see Jimmy’s deft fingers working himself open haphazardly, because Wilson couldn’t ever be bothered with thorough preparation when he was handling that himself. Still couldn’t if that tight clench of brand-hot muscles, the soft tremble of thighs where they pressed against his was any indication. House dropped his head back, hips rolling upward just barely into that clench. Wilson’s hips ground down against his, as if trying to suck House’s dick into the tight, perfect clench of Jimmy’s body. He groaned, his hips rolling upward again. And Wilson pressed his hips down, doing some obscene little twist as House’s length slipped up deeper into the younger man. His fingers dug into the flesh of Wilson’s hips as he groaned. “Christ Jimmy,” he panted, tilting his head forward to rest against Wilson’s collarbone, breathing heavily against the other’s skin. Jimmy’s hips twisted, pulling upward slowly and heavily as House clutched at the younger man’s skin. His hips pulled after Wilson’s. Wilson pressed his forehead to House’s as his hips moved, pressing downward into the upward jerk of his hips.

“Greg,” the younger man panted against his lips, Wilson’s hips pressing down hard and twisting, yanking at House’s breath. Grunting, House rolled his hips up helplessly, clutching at Wilson’s hips and pulling the younger man down against him, because Christ that was good. The slip and clench of Jimmy’s body was absolutely _perfect_ , clinging to his length like shrink-wrapped heat. And House was powerless but to jerk and rock his hips up into Jimmy. House’s head fell backward with a groan, his eyes screwing up tight, because _Jesus_ did the younger man feel good. His hands slid up and down Wilson’s back, pulling his nails against damp skin before House gripped at Wilson’s hips roughly just to hear the ex-oncologist whimper as he pulled him down.

Water sloshed against his chest as Wilson looped his arms around House’s neck, leaning into him so that every motion bore the hard length of his cock firmly against House’s belly. The precum-slick, brand-hot slide against his stomach was obscene, pulling at his hips because every thrust cinched Jimmy’s body up tighter around his dick. House dug his fingertips down into the meat of Wilson’s peachy-perfect ass and hauled him closer, feeling Jimmy’s muscles crush around his length as if the pressure could turn House’s dick into a diamond. The younger man groaned low in his chest as he ground his hips down filthily, twisting and rocking as he went, snagging at his desire to cum. House had just managed to wedge a hand between their bodies to curl his hand around that pretty cock rocking against his stomach when the yipping started.

Wilson huffed out a vaguely amused sound, eyes screwed tightly shut. “Please tell me those aren’t coyotes.”

“Those aren’t coyotes,” House dutifully lied as he grasped tightly at Jimmy’s ass, rocking up into the clench of the younger man’s body. He buried his face in the crook of Wilson’s neck, pressing Jimmy down tighter against him and totally willing to ignore the background noise. But Wilson pulled back, looking around anxiously. Because it didn’t matter that they were right up against the house, hearing coyote calls while naked was a little terrifying, and House couldn’t exactly blame Jimmy as the younger man slipped off House’s lap fitfully. He huffed out a disappointed sound, feeling his orgasm sink back into the marrows of his bones while his dick twitched pitifully.

Jimmy glanced at him over his shoulder while climbing out of the hot tub and heading for the door. “You coming,” he asked, leaning into the doorframe and dribbling water all over the floor.

And House couldn’t get out of the hot tub fast enough.

They stumbled through the cabin, mostly because House couldn’t keep his hands off of Wilson and felt it necessary to stop them every few feet so he could smooth his palms along Jimmy’s hips, dig his fingers down into the younger man’s lower back, pull Wilson up against him as they kissed sloppily. House could overlook the classic hunting cabin décor as Jimmy pushed him against the wall just outside the bedroom to grind their hips together while he licked filthily into House’s mouth. He groped for the doorknob, which was more difficult that it had any right being, but Wilson was a pretty good distraction. And who closed bedroom doors when they weren’t in use anyway? But House finally managed to get the door open, and they fell inside the room. How had he forgotten how impatient Jimmy could be, as the younger man hurried him backward, presumably toward the bed. They shared a breath of laughter as House fell back on the covers, Wilson climbing onto the bed after him. The younger man rolled their hips together lazily as his forearms folded on either side of House’s head.

The whole change of venue had been enough for his dick to soften marginally, not that that was an issue with the way Wilson was grinding against him because it was _definitely_ encouraging his blood flow to pool downward. House pushed his palms up along Jimmy’s thighs, tipping his head back to leer up at the younger man. Wilson dipped his head down, nipping at House’s bottom lip before crushing their mouths together. He pulled at the ex-oncologist’s hips, more than ready to get back to it, and Jimmy huffed out a breath of a laugh, shifting up on his elbows as his hips squirmed downward. Wilson tipped backward, as his cock slipped up into the slick cleft of that perfect ass in a lewd mimicry of fucking that had House groaning, because it was almost as good as the real thing. But Wilson bit at his shoulder, breathing out an amused sound before he shoved himself up into a sitting position. Jimmy reached between them, curling fingers tightly around the base of House’s cock and squeezing before the younger man practically just _dropped_ down on his length, making him groan as his hips rolled upward.

“Jesus Jimmy,” he panted out, gripping at Wilson’s hips roughly as Jimmy did some lewd twist, his fingers digging down into the flesh of House’s chest as he rocked downward. “A little warning,” House huffed, his hips jerking upward as his head fell back. Jimmy just hummed out a breath, his body angling forward to press a palm to the bedclothes as hips ground down. And Wilson’s back curved managed to cinch those hot muscles up even tighter around him as the younger man dug his toes down into the covers and his hips slipped upward before twisting down again. House bit at the inside of his cheek, desperate to keep from cumming even as that heady, pooling feeling seeped down into his hips and pulled the muscles of his stomach up tight. Jimmy pressed back on his throbbing dick, grinding down dirtily, and House figured he could feel Wilson’s moan where it rattled through the younger man’s body. The younger man’s body did some complicated arch, his dick sliding slickly against House’s stomach as his back rolled and flexed, pulling that perfect ass up along House’s length before slipping back down. And it was instinct to grab at the supple flesh of Jimmy’s thighs, digging his fingertips down into skin and muscle, hoping to leave bruises behind. He pulled at Wilson with a groan, his hips rocking upward.

When Wilson spread his legs wider for better traction, House could feel the quiver in the muscles there where his hands had curled around those thighs, pulling the younger man down onto his length. And there was that flash of red, strewn across the inside of Wilson’s thigh and way more attractive than he’d thought it would be, because the skin had healed out of that glossy-dull patchwork of scabs into the deep red color of a hickey. House groaned and dug his thumb down into it, feeling the velveteen texture of new skin and flex of muscles just underneath as his hips rolled upward as best he was able as Jimmy’s hips ground down into him. And it was such a lovely thing to watch as the younger man took himself in hand, pulling roughly on his precum-slick length to the same haphazard rhythm that his ass rocked against House’s dick. Wilson’s breath was hitching as his hips stuttered against House, precum dribbling through his fingers and onto House’s belly as all those brand-hot muscles cinched almost painfully tight around House’s length. Grunting roughly, House dug his fingers down into the meat of Wilson’s hips, pulling him down firmly as his hips rolled upward.

“Nnh,” Jimmy gasped out, his hips grinding down weakly as he stripped his palm quicker along his length, his whole body seemingly flexing as the first wave of his orgasm hit. And his cum was thick and hot where it striped House’s belly and chest, yanking at his guts possessively as House’s hips jerked upward into that tight clench. Wilson rocked on his length as he stroked himself through that melting pleasure, little whimpers hitching out of his chest as cum pooled on House’s stomach. His dick flexed and throbbed against those hot pulses, pulling his hips upward in a filthy, grinding pursuit of orgasm. It pooled hotly in the cradle of his hips, in his lower belly like molten lead until it overfilled and ran scalding hot through him, evaporating the breath in his lungs as House spilled into that tight clench. And the flex of his dick fighting against the cinch of Jimmy’s ass had him groaning, his head tipping back into the pillows as he pulled Wilson down harder against him, his hips jerking up as he came.

And it took way longer than he cared to admit for the muscles in his back to relax as his cock twitched in the burning grip of Jimmy’s body. Way longer for him to catch his breath or open his eyes even though he didn’t remember shutting them. House drew aimless designs against Wilson’s skin as he tried to relax, even with residual pleasure sparking along his neurons. His head lolled lazily on his neck as House peered up at Jimmy with heavy lids. He could see it where Wilson’s shoulders trembled as he held himself mantled over House’s supine form; a palm planted on the mattress with the other hand still wrapped around his softening cock, fingers pearlescent with spend. House pulled his hands up and down Wilson’s thighs, his hips still trembling in half-aborted upward thrusts because Jimmy’s body was still pulsing and twitching.

Jimmy huffed out a heavy breath, his hips shimmying once more before he slowly pulled off, wincing as he climbed off the bed. House wiped his palm at the congealing cum on his chest, fighting down the urge to smear it into his skin and wear Jimmy’s spend like a brand of ownership as he watched the younger man disappear from the room. And if Wilson kept fucking him like that, House wasn’t entirely sure he would make it through those last three months, because his heart was hammering away behind the bones of his chest, and maybe House was too old to fuck like that anymore. Wilson returned from the bathroom, dragging a towel roughly against House’s flesh before he dropped it on the ground and crawled back into bed. The younger man flopped face down on the pillows, sucking in a ragged breath as he squirmed in the slightly damp covers. “Pretty good for being over half a century old,” Jimmy teased, reaching a hand behind him in search of House. And how could he say no to that? So, he folded himself up against Wilson’s back, feeling the younger man breathe as he wound an arm around Jimmy’s waist.

“A good fucking makes you feisty,” he grumbled, burying his nose in the soft hairs at the back of Wilson’s skull.

“Near death experiences does that to me.”

He scoffed, because it had _probably_ just been two or three coyotes and they hadn’t even gotten up on the porch. “We didn’t even _see_ the damn things,” he retorted, pinching at Wilson’s ribs roughly. “Besides, coyotes are only dangerous when they form big groups.”

Wilson huffed out a laugh, and then – unexpectedly – he wound his fingers with House’s where his hand had pressed against Jimmy’s belly. The gesture was so tenderhearted that it snagged roughly at House’s breath. And he wanted to make some joke or quip about Wilson being a girl, but Jimmy just rubbed his cheek into the pillow and breathed out “G’night Greg, I love you,” like it was _nothing_. Like Wilson having said it once before allowed him to say it whenever he fucking wanted, which was definitely detrimental to House’s mental wellbeing because the more often Jimmy uttered those three little words, the more likely House was to believe him. He swallowed hard, feeling his throat click as he pressed closer to the younger man and he counted backward from one hundred to keep from making a fool of himself.

When he finally made himself whisper “Goodnight Jimmy,” Wilson’s breathing had evened out into long, deep inhales that inflated his ribs and soft, wheezing exhales as his lungs tried to squeeze themselves empty. He rubbed his thumbpad along Wilson’s knuckles, feeling the ridge of bones where they pressed up against skin.

And in that borrowed bed, House lay tucked in against Wilson’s side, his chest to the younger man’s back and his wrecked thigh snugged up under Jimmy’s ass. He brushed his lips along the soft skin of Jimmy’s nape, listening to Wilson’s breath become a slower, heavier thing and his hand slipped away as he fell deeper asleep. House relaxed into it before he pushed his hand up along the younger man’s side, House curling his arm around Wilson’s chest. House smoothed his palm against Jimmy’s heartbeat, feeling the shift of bone under skin as the younger man breathed. He pressed kisses along Wilson’s shoulder, resting his head against the cut of the other man’s scapula. And Jimmy’s skin held the washed-out scent of chlorine where his nose pressed against the younger man’s shoulder.

“I love you,” he breathed out, his lips pressing into flesh as if his words might sink down into bone so that Jimmy felt them, could carry them always. “I love you, Jimmy,” he muttered again, pressing his forehead to the cut of Wilson’s shoulder.

And how was it fair how just saying those words aloud filled him with peace, like letting out a breath he’d been holding too long or finally relaxing a muscle he didn’t know he’d flexed.

“I love you,” he whispered once more, if only because he could. _Finally,_ House could say those words instead of cramming them down under his ribs, hiding them away at the corners of his chest. His smile curled at the corners of his mouth completely without House’s consent as he pressed closer to Wilson, tangling their legs more firmly together. His arm tightened, pulling the younger man back against him as though House could just absorb Jimmy and keep him always. And what sort of deal with the Devil would he have to make for them to stay there, curled up and hidden away from the world House wondered. Because three days wouldn’t be anywhere near enough when all he wanted was to spend every day with Wilson until the fucking Earth rotted away into space.

But three days was all they had, tucked away into that mountain paradise in East Tennessee. And in the end, they had to leave.

They spent the night in Knoxville, somewhere close to the interstate because I-75 North was pretty much a straight shot up into Lexington, which was pretty much a straight shot over to Colorado. And House was glad that Wilson had taken to letting them sleep late, that the younger man often lazed in bed because House had taken to spending his nights awake. He spent his nights listening to Jimmy breathe as he pressed soft kisses to the younger man’s skin, as he whispered his devotion and held the other man tight like Wilson was all he needed. House was grateful for it, because when the sun rose, he had to lock that softness away with those words still barbing in his throat.

I-75 North was pretty much the same as all other interstates, what with the heavy press of tractor-trailers and minivans loaded down with luggage. Traffic flowed much faster than the speed limit signs suggested as that road snaked sharply into the mountains. Shale and limestone bluffs banked the interstate until they smoothed out in trees. And charmingly shredded dead animals dotted the shoulder, offering up disgusting little pockets of stench as they drove past, until House began playing Name That Critter just to _not_ think about the smell.

They finally pulled off the interstate and into a Shell’s parking lot just outside Lexington, and _thank God_ because House was getting a little tired of getting a lungful of the stench of sun-rotted deer carcasses on the side of the asphalt. House’s knees shook a little as he swung off the bike. Because looking at South Carolina on the map, the state hadn’t seemed that big. But they had headed up through the stumpy state at a northwestern slant, driving almost the length of it before South Carolina had shifted briefly into North Carolina and then into Tennessee before merging pretty firmly into Kentucky. At least, that was what the map said. Visually speaking it had been a _lot_ of green, and all the towns had looked pretty similar in design. Of course, he remembered the big cities they had stayed in, could find them on the map if he had to. But there hadn’t been any real distinguishing feature if one overlooked the massive _welcome_ sign at each state’s border and the state’s license plate being the predominate one, which even that had been a little iffy.

And it should have only been roughly ten hours of driving to get from Folly Beach, South Carolina to just outside Lexington, Kentucky. But they had managed to break it up over two weeks, scattered it with declarations that were both monumental and whispered and filled it with memories that only House would keep in the end. And a road trip during the summertime in the South had definitely been a bad idea, because the very _moment_ they stopped in that pitted parking lot, the humidity stuck his clothes to him, grossly damp where fabric plastered to skin. Which would have almost been bearable if not for the mosquitoes buzzing in his ears fitfully. He batted at the air, shaking his head as if that could dissuade the insects from their free meal.

“I fucking _hate_ deer,” he bit out as he undid the helmet’s chinstrap, fighting the urge to throw his helmet. The sides of the interstate had been strewn with deer bits where the stupid creatures had just seemingly run headlong into whatever vehicle was driving past and been obliterated. At least the raccoons and the opossums had the decency to curl up when they were hit, but the _deer_ were like fucking suicide bombers, determined to sprinkle their rotting guts up and down the highway until the air was just one big miasma of stink. Jimmy just huffed out a laugh, undoing his own helmet and running a hand through his hair. “And what is with these people and their damn license plates,” House grumbled as he rubbed at his bum leg, knowing he was only bitching to distract himself from mentally counting the number of days they had left. “Don’t they know they’re supposed to live in the state designated on said license plates?”

“People travel between states all the time for their jobs,” Jimmy retorted, digging in his backpack for his wallet. “For shopping. Or food. We used to drive into Connecticut all the time for brisket sandwiches.”

“These aren’t exactly _little_ states, Jim.”

“Don’t call me that,” Wilson huffed, his fingers curling around the chin strap of his helmet as he gave House a dark look. “Or I swear I’ll start calling you Tucker.”

“My assholery level isn’t on par with that jackass,” he scoffed as House hobbled toward the small diner connected to the gas station. Just the thought of being roped into the same category as Tucker was enough to make his skin crawl. _He’d_ never manipulate Jimmy for a lobe of the younger man’s fucking liver, and that memory still made him grit his teeth. Because watching Wilson drift off on a scrubbed table, go under the knife for a patient who wouldn’t even call Jimmy by the right name still haunted House’s dreams. Angrily, House jerked open the grimy door and limped inside.

“Just sit anywhere hun,” the lone waitress called loudly before she turned her attention to the trucker in front of her. But already, House was making his way to a back-corner booth. He could hear Jimmy trailing him, speaking politely to the waitress as he did so. 

“Did you know the grass isn’t like _actually_ blue,” House huffed out as he threw himself down in the booth. “Can you believe that? Those hillbillies lied,” he grumbled, peering up as Jimmy slowly folded himself down opposite the table.

“I don’t know if you can call the residents of Lexington _hillbillies_ ,” Wilson said with a laugh, opening the menu and flipping aimlessly through the laminated pages. “They generally have most of their teeth,” the younger man teased. “What’s a _hot brown_? That sounds,” Jimmy trailed off as the waitress sidled up to the table with a toothy grin.

“Oh! A hot brown is an open-faced sandwich; it’s a kitchen special, actually. Toasted white bread, turkey breast, tomato, bacon, and kind of like a cheese gravy,” she ticked off on her fingers. Her grin softened at the edges as she shoved her hands in the front pocket of her apron for her pad. “I’m Jenna, by the way. How’re y’all doing today?” She plucked her pen from behind her ear and lifted her order pad.

“Tired, poor, huddled masses,” House snarked. Jimmy shot him a look before he smoothed a smile in the waitress’s direction.

“It’s been a long ride,” the younger man deferred.

“Where y’all coming from,” she asked, cocking her hip out and resting it against the edge of the table. And somehow, the waitress seemed genuinely interested, as she peered at them with sleepy green eyes behind honey colored hair. House supposed that was the famed Southern Hospitality, the ability to give a fuck about anyone.

“Uh, New Jersey,” Wilson said, lifting his menu slightly as if to get the conversation back on track. “What’s your soup of the day?”

“French onion in a bread bowl,” she quipped. “And Jersey, huh? Had a girl I went to high school with from there.” The waitress pulled a complicated, scrunched nose expression that House related with more than he was entirely comfortable with. “So, y’all ready to order? Or y’all still need a min?”

“I’ll try a hot brown,” House said, snapping his menu closed and ignoring the look Wilson was giving him. “Do you guys have Coke?”

“Oh, sorry hun. Pepsi products,” Jenna muttered as she scribbled on her order pad. “Water, coffee, decaf, sweet or iced tea, and Pepsi products.”

“Pepsi’s fine,” he returned, tucking his menu away nonchalantly even though Pepsi was a bit too sweet for him. She clucked her tongue as she scribbled down his drink choice before giving Wilson a look.

“And for you, hun?”

“The French onion soup, please,” Wilson muttered softly, closing up his menu and tucking it away. “And water’s fine, no lemon. Thanks.” His smile was a soft thing that smoothed down any hackles his gentle dismissal might have raised.

Jenna left them with a simper of a smile, heading back toward the kitchen to place their orders and pick up their drinks. “So, where y’all headed,” Jenna asked as she dropped their drinks off, which ironically were in red, plastic Coke cups. “Hate to intrude, but we mostly get drunk college kids or truckers round here.” She folded her arms across her chest, head cocked with interest.

“We’re taking a pilgrimage out West,” House quipped. “Fingers crossed we make it to Colorado.”

She laughed as she pulled wrapped silverware from her apron pocket, placing them at the edge of the table. “Well, fingers crossed for y’all. I hear they do incredible things with the edibles scene now. I’d settle for a crappy brownie, to be honest, but here we are in the Bible Belt. ‘Til all those old white men in office die, I think I’m stuck with shittily wrapped joints shared by the dish boy.” She headed away from their table with a huff of a laugh.

Wilson gave him a look, eyebrows lifting as his eyes widened marginally before his gaze drifted out the window. House huffed out a laugh before stretching out a leg to prop his foot up on Jimmy’s seat. His calf rested against the younger man’s thigh, the heat of his leeching out through the denim. “Well then,” Jimmy muttered. “She seems nice.”

House hummed noncommittally as he looked over at Wilson. The sunshine was faded-out, grungy where it flooded through the diner’s windows. It backlit Jimmy, softening Wilson’s edges with gold and orange as the younger man leaned back against the booth with a sigh. And that was how House wanted to remember Jimmy, all languid and boneless as he slumped back into broken down vinyl and foam. With his lips curving upward as Wilson slung an arm along the back of the booth, his head tilting back just slightly as if under the weight of his smile. Because Jimmy looked road-worn and tired, but happy. Weightless or something, as if all of Wilson’s sorrows had been carved away. As if all those phantoms haunting him had finally, however briefly, fallen quiet.

Right then would have been a perfect time to tell the younger man House loved him. Right then in some shitty little diner of no consequence in fucking _Kentucky_ of all places. Right then when Jimmy already looked so happy, because House could imagine the way Wilson’s smile would bloom across his face, the way the younger man would lace their fingers together, the way Jimmy would say those words back. Right then.

“A hot brown,” their waitress said brightly as she placed the open-faced sandwich in front of House, unaware that she had broken the moment before House had had the balls to create it. “And French onion soup,” she said as she placed the bowl of soup in front of Wilson. She leaned back, hands on her hips as Jenna smiled at them. “Y’all need anything else? Another drink or something?” She looked expectantly between them.

“Uhm, no,” Jimmy started, giving his plate half a twist before picking up his spoon. “I think we’re good.”

House picked up his fork as Jenna swayed away before cutting out a wedge of his sandwich. “She seems nice,” he mocked as he stuffed the bite past his teeth, because of course the universe would have thought it fitting to destroy the moment. Wilson gave him a curious look as he swept the spoon through his soup before pushing a spoonful into his mouth.

And in the end, the sandwich was better than he had expected it to be with a name like _hot brown._ House leaned back into the booth and pushed his plate away groaning as he rubbed his hand against his forehead. He glanced over at the younger man, where Wilson was just picking listlessly at the other half of his soup. “Leftovers and motorcycles don’t really go well together, Jimmy,” House quipped, trying for teasing but landing a bit heavy with his words. Because he had noticed Wilson eating less but had been trying his hardest to not pay attention to it. Wilson doggedly ate a few more bites before pushing the bowl away and reaching for his water glass. House moved their dishes to the edge of the table as he reached out his hand. “Gimme the map; I wanna check out Colorado.” House caught the face Wilson pulled as he dug the map out of his pocket but ignored it. Instead, he pulled his finger along I-64 West and then I-70 West, following the interstates west to Colorado Springs. “What do you think about Colorado Springs?” House glanced upward at Wilson. “The Garden of the Gods is out there.”

“Planning on doing some hiking after I die,” Wilson tried to tease, but his mouth had tightened and there was a pinched expression at the creases of his eyes that House didn’t quite like.

He leaned back in his seat, head tilting just slightly to the side as he regarded the younger man. House knew from experience that if he waited long enough, Wilson would just dig his own hole and climb inside, so he waited. He watched Jimmy fidget with his napkin, rolling the edges tightly as he looked everywhere but at House. Wilson’s jaw clenched briefly before he opened his mouth to say something. Which was precisely the moment their waitress chose to appear with the check. Jenna tapped the back of their check with her finger as she laid it on the table before she started collecting their dirty dishes. “Now, no rush y’all. Lemme know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks,” Wilson mumbled softly, already twisting to pull his wallet from his pocket and rifling through the bills before he placed the notes for the tip on the empty table without really looking at the check. Jimmy picked up the pen she’d left behind, twisting it between his fingers absentmindedly in thought as he looked at the map. House could see the furrow of the younger man’s eyebrows as he waited, could practically hear Jimmy thinking. Finally, Wilson looked out the window, chewing at his bottom lip anxiously.

“You’re thinking pretty loudly there,” House quipped softly, reaching over to tug the pen free. Jimmy’s dark eyes finally focused on him. It was harder than before to not reach across the table for the younger man, because Wilson was an affectionate creature inside their hotel rooms, but House was still working himself up to allowing himself to be one as well. “Penny for them,” he asked.

“You cannot touch these phantoms,” Wilson quoted instead.

“You _know_ it gets me hot when you recite poetry to me,” House mocked, finally closing the gap, and curling his fingers loosely around Jimmy’s. The younger man’s fingers were cold, but it was worth it as Wilson smiled wanly, lacing his fingers through House’s.

“I’m not,” Wilson started, biting at his bottom lip as if picking his words carefully. And suddenly, House didn’t want to hear what Jimmy was thinking, because there was a sinking pit in his guts. “I’m not entirely sure I can make it to Colorado.” He fought the urge to jerk his hand away because those words fucking _burned_ , but the younger man’s fingers curled tighter around his and kept House in place. “And I know that’s why we came up to Kentucky, because it’s pretty much just a straight shot out west. But it’s like a week of riding, and a _lot_ of that is through Kansas.” Jimmy’s nose crinkled in apparent disgust. “And Kansas is a _whole_ lot of nothing.”

Which wasn’t unreasonable, because Kansas was essentially just _miles_ of wheat, but House would have rather stayed in Folly Beach if they weren’t heading to a state with lax pot laws. “Is this your way of telling me you want to die in Kentucky,” he deadpanned. Which sounded about as much fun as driving through Kansas.

Jimmy pulled his free hand upward on the map, his finger following along I-75 North. “A lakeside cabin in Michigan,” and it sounded like a question the way Wilson phrased it, his eyebrows drifting upward slightly. “Share a bowl in the morning, and I can make you pancakes when the munchies hit.” And House wanted to be embarrassed at Wilson’s gentle teasing, but Jimmy was smiling so tenderheartedly at House that it punched into him roughly, filling him with affection. “Something with a potbelly stove and heated floors and quilts on the sofa. Just a couple of backwards sunbirds.”

House scoffed out a noise of faux disgust. “You were supposed to be asleep,” he grumbled halfheartedly. “I guess Michigan works. But it’s either the Upper Peninsula or nothing.”

“I was thinking Marquette.” Wilson tapped his finger roughly midway along the upper coastline of the Upper Peninsula. “If Lake Superior is alright with you?”

“As opposed to what? Lake Michigan?” House scoffed, rubbing his thumb along Jimmy’s knuckles before untangling their fingers to pick up his glass. “That lake looks like a dick,” he grumbled against the rim, grimacing as he took a swallow of overly sweet Pepsi. He ignored the amused look Wilson was giving him. Jimmy got to his feet, leaning into House’s space to brush his lips against House’s temple in a way that made his heart trill behind his sternum.

“Pay the check while I go pee, will you,” Wilson quipped softly. “I won’t even pretend to get mad that you spend way too long staring at my ass while I walk away.”

He tried to scoff as the younger man headed toward the bathroom, but Jimmy had practically given him his blessing to ogle him, and House had no plans to squander that godsend away. He folded his arms on the table, leaning forward just barely as he _unashamedly_ watched Wilson walk away. Yeah, that denim did remarkable things for an already remarkable ass. The corners of his mouth twisted up into an almost smile before he bit it back, because House was pretty certain that it would come out more like a leer. The spell was broken as Wilson finally disappeared into the bathroom, and House huffed out a sigh, shoving himself out of the booth and heading for the cash register.

“Y’all are cute,” Jenna told him brightly as House stepped up to pay, handing over the check and the one card that Jimmy had trusted him with. “How long have you been together?” Her smile was soft and earnest, like she really cared about the people who stepped into her diner. House blinked at that question, because there were so many ways he could answer it. So many starting points – ones from the blue-smoke atmosphere of Louisiana bars and from broken hearts, from first kisses and falling into bed, from falling out of sync and back into it again after months apart.

“Going on nineteen years,” he finally settled on, accepting his card back once she’d swiped it through the card reader. Because he’d been Jimmy’s since the beginning.

“Well, you guys are so cute,” she quipped, pawing lightly at his chest with a smile. Jenna held out a receipt toward him. “Did you want this? Or are you good without?”

House waved it off, already turning around. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, biting at his tongue to keep from smiling outright as Jimmy stepped out of the bathroom, tugging at the bottom hem of his sweatshirt. But still that affection bloomed in his chest, as Wilson glanced over at him and his face brightened in a small smile. And House found himself wanting to crowd Jimmy against the counter, wanting to kiss the younger man desperately. Instead, he limped forward, smiling just barely as Jimmy stepped toward him. The younger man tipped his head forward, pressing a kiss to the line of House’s jaw. Hands snagged around House’s waist softly, and Wilson leaned into him.

“Ready to go,” Jimmy murmured, tucking his head in against House’s throat. House pushed his fingers through Wilson’s hair, turning his face into those dark strands before he made himself pull away.

“Yep!”

And in the parking lot, as Jimmy consulted the map once more, House upturned his face to the sun. Because they’d already suffered I-75 North once, and House had no desire to do so again, considering that the intestate was crammed with traffic of people heading home from vacation. Or off to vacation. Or for one last hurrah with a loved one. But he couldn’t say that, so he just started the bike.

I-75 North had been exactly what he had expected as they stopped for food in Dayton, which really felt like small town playing dress up. The stop had been nonconsequential until Jimmy looked over at him across a sticky table at Denny’s, his mouth twisting. “You know, I can’t believe I grew up in Jersey and never went to Six Flags.” And while it was said like a statement, Wilson’s tone lilted upward in question.

House huffed out an almost laugh. “You’re not missing much. All amusement parks are pretty much the same.” He cut a square out of his stack of waffles, shrugging slightly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to an amusement park,” Wilson seemingly asked of them both, his brows furrowing as if trying to remember back across the span of his lifetime as he sipped his coffee.

“Probably not,” House scoffed. “Your mother probably thought they were the Devil’s work.”

Wilson gave him a sharp look. “You leave my mother out of this.” But he could see the amusement curling the younger man’s lips just barely. Jimmy hid that smile behind the rim of his coffee cup, tipping his head downward slightly.

“So, is that a bucket list item,” House tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible, because he actually _liked_ amusement parks. He liked the way his stomach fell out on roller coasters and the _pick your poison_ type of torment found in those rides. He liked the shitty, deep fried foods and the weak beer and the screams of delight and shrieks of laughter filling the air. He liked the way the general air of fun mixed with apprehension and excitement and fear, the way it stuck to everything like it was more than just an atmosphere but a way of life, like the lifeblood and bones of every amusement park ever. He fiddled with the last of his probably frozen waffles, watching as Wilson spun his coffee mug in a tight circle like it was some sort of Magic 8-Ball that would offer up the younger man’s truest desires.

“Are you trying to hijack my bucket list,” Jimmy teased, his mouth pulling into a hint of a smile.

Their waiter stepped up to the table before House could think of a good retort. “You guys gonna need anything else?”

“Just the check, please,” Wilson started.

“Are there any amusement parks around here,” House cut in, making the decision for Jimmy.

The kid tore their check free before he started collecting their dirty dishes. “Uhm, well there’s Cedar Point up north. I mean it’s about a three-hour drive, but it’s a good park.” Tony stacked their plates along his forearm. “And it’s got the second tallest rollercoaster in the world, so there’s that.”

“No kidding,” House quipped, giving Wilson a look, even as the younger man’s face paled marginally.

“Yep! Top Thrill Dragster and it is _sick_ ,” he said as he stacked House’s glass in Wilson’s coffee cup. “It gets up to like one-twenty speed wise. My friends and I used to wait at the end just to watch all the people get off and hurl.” Tony flashed them a smile. “Lemme know if you need something else, cool?”

“Cool,” House parroted, grinning sharply at Jimmy. “We’re heading north anyway,” he told the younger man once their waiter had disappeared.

“Greg, no.”

“Go big or go home, Jimmy.”

“Funny. Because that sounds more like morgue to me.”

“What better way to pop your cherry than dropping from the top of the second tallest coaster in the world?”

Wilson rolled his eyes, huffing out a sigh. “In a way where there’s not a probability for bodily harm?”

“Where’s the fun in that,” House scoffed.

Jimmy rubbed his palms over his face roughly. “Fine,” he ground out from between his fingers. “Who cares if I die a little quicker than originally planned.”

“That’s the spirit,” he quipped brightly, reaching for the check.

And like the kid had said, it was roughly three hours on fucking I-75 North, which House was becoming pretty certain was in fact a circle of Hell, especially when they ran into a wreck around Findlay. It had been a walking stop there for a bit, but eventually they’d cleared the shattered glass and mangled steel, and it had been smooth sailing since. And Cedar Point was exactly as he had expected it to be, where it jutted out into Lake Erie, because it felt like _miles_ of parking lot crammed with vehicles and screaming children and exasperated parents calling out meeting points.

House dropped the kick stand and tugged off his helmet, looking over at Jimmy. Because that was how he wanted to remember the younger man, his face full of wonder and delight as he looked up at the bones of roller coasters rising into the sky in lazy loops. And already Jimmy’s cheeks were flushed as if he’d spent a day of sun and fun, laughing life away. The air was filled with shrieks of laugher and the rumble of hard wheels against harder steel, with bells and whistles and muted music. Wilson turned that bright gaze on House, his smile cutting its way into his mouth as House pulled out a couple Vicodin, dry swallowing them because no way in fuck would ibuprofen cut it; not if the way Jimmy was looking at him was anything to go on. “Let’s ride _everything_ ,” Wilson breathed out already starting for the gates, falling into the crush of the crowd and leaving House helpless but to follow. Which, in the end House managed to convince Wilson to pick a handful of rides instead of _all_ of them, as they stared at the map of the park and made a game plan, because in an amusement park a game plan was key.

So, they corkscrewed into the air on Wicked Twister, House’s stomach dropping as he watched the ground fall away and then rush up toward them as Jimmy’s bright laughter bubbled in his ears. And it was an instinct he had to beat down to pull his legs up as they hung from the steel backbone of Iron Dragon, sweeping almost lazily out over trees and water. They stumbled off Millennium Force, laughing bright and loud, and House could overlook the dull ache in his leg as they shared Chinese food on the midway, leaning into each other as they sat in that hot sunshine. And that general sense of merriment followed them on the plummeting spines and tight corners and broad loops and sharp twists of Rougarou, of Maverick, of Steel Vengeance, of Corkscrew as the rumble of wheels and shudders of track bore down into his bones. They laughed and joked and played like a couple of teens set loose with pockets of spending money and time to kill as they made lazy loops of the amusement park.

As they stood in line for Top Thrill Dragster, House snuck another Vicodin, because he could hobble and lean on the younger man for the rest of the park provided they stopped to rest often, but Top Thrill Dragster required four functioning limbs and he wasn’t entirely sure that his right leg counted as _functioning_. But damned if he was going to take that from Wilson, as he watched Jimmy bounce on the balls of his feet in an anxious tangle of nerves and excitement, his dark eyes glued to the bones of the roller coaster where it jutted into the sky.

“Second taller roller coaster in the world,” Wilson murmured before turning to House. “This is insane.”

“Too late now Jimmy,” he quipped as the line began to move.

Which wasn’t exactly the case, because there was plenty of time for Wilson to get a case of cold feet and for them to dip out of the line. They stood in line, and stood in line, and stood in line. They stood in line for so long that House began to actually worry that the Vicodin would wear off before they actually went on the ride. But at least the line was moving, albeit agonizingly slowly but still it was moving. Until eventually they were being ushered into their seats and strapped in. And House sat restlessly in his seat, counting his breaths while the roller coaster idled. House glanced over at Wilson, who was clutching at his restraints pretty tightly, his chest shuddering in sharp staccato breathes. In a moment of weakness, he offered his hand to the younger man as the clock beeped loudly, counting down the seconds until the train would hurtle into space. Jimmy offered him a wan smile, his fingers curling coolly over House’s right before the coaster shot into motion.

Seventeen seconds.

House had read how long it would take, and they had spent longer just sitting there, not to mention the hour and a half they’d spent in line. Jimmy’s fingers curled over his tightly as the roller coaster bolted up into the sky at practically a ninety-degree angle. House kept telling himself it was just a right angle. There was nothing to be afraid of. His eyes squinted shut anyway. It was a pity he couldn’t close his ears, because the people in front of them were screaming and the people behind them were whooping in delight, and House had no idea how they had ever thought they’d feel _safe_ in the middle. Because the few seconds it took for the machine to climb the slope felt like eternities, as Wilson clenched his fingers tightly and muttered out a low mantra of _oh fuck_. And his body felt almost weightless, like gravity had snatched all of his blood and organs away and left him plastered bonelessly against the back of his seat.

The coaster slowed marginally as it climbed, and House had told himself he would look at the top. But the moment the train crawled onto the top of the rails, it threw itself over the crest of the track. And if the upward climb had plastered him to the back of his seat, the downward drop did its damnedest to meld his atoms with that of hard plastic and foam. All of his muscles drew up tight as his stomach tried to crawl out his damn throat. And the little twist was something he could have done without, as the roller coaster shuddered and began to slow, its wheels catching on probably a million tiny brakes.

“Holy fuck,” Jimmy breathed out shakily, his fingers still curled around House’s.

Seventeen seconds from start to finish. Four hundred and twenty feet into the air. At one hundred and twenty miles per hour.

“Holy fuck,” House agreed, as his heart tried to calm its pounding and his organs tried to settle back into place. He wasn’t entirely sure if his asshole would ever unclench to an appropriate level of flex again. And thank Christ for the Vicodin he’d taken before they’d gone on the ride, because his legs felt weak as the coaster slowed to a stop and the restraints released with a hiss. They sat there as the coaster emptied around them before Wilson let go of him, pushing himself to his feet.

Jimmy turned his dark gaze on House, that look was a bit more heated than House thought a terrifying roller coaster ride warranted. “Coming,” Wilson asked lowly, which sounded a little more salacious than it had any right being. Because surely Jimmy didn’t mean it like that, but the younger man was looking at him hotly. House’s guts squirmed as he slowly got to his feet.

“Sounds like I will be,” he breathed out cheekily as House climbed out of the coaster car.

They barely made it inside their hotel room, the door clicking behind them, before Jimmy was crowding him up against the door, his lips crushing to House’s frantically. His arms wound around Wilson’s waist as he snugged the other man up against him. He let the door and the younger man’s passion hold him up. Wilson tugged at his damaged leg and leaned in close.

“How’s your leg,” Jimmy muttered, kissing and biting along House’s neck.

Groaning, House dropped his head back, canting his hips forward. “Leg’s fine, Jimmy,” he huffed out, because the Vicodin had worn off enough to clear his mind to some degree but it still smoothed the edges of his leg pain off. And as Wilson rocked their hips lazily together, House couldn’t help but feel a little bit of anticipation, because it had been _so_ long since Jimmy had fucked him against any upright surface. Wilson hiked his leg up further, leaning into the vee of his legs as Jimmy rolled his hips upward roughly. House groaned low in his chest, his hips canting downward so they could better grind together. He bit at Jimmy’s bottom lip, rolling the flesh between his teeth more aggressively than normal, because _apparently_ adrenaline was a heady aphrodisiac. Lust thrummed through him, burning along his bones to the pound of his pulse. Not-quite-nearly dying shouldn’t have been that hot, but Jimmy was responding eagerly, kissing him harder. House swallowed down the breathy sound that the younger man groaned into his mouth as their teeth clicked lightly. Wilson’s hand spread on the door beside his head as Jimmy leaned into him, their bodies just a hot line from hips to chest.

Wilson ground his hips down into House’s and granted, it would have probably been better if they had started the endeavor without their jeans on because his jeans were feeling a _little_ tight. His erection was pressing pretty incessantly up against his zipper, the ridges of metal teeth rasping at his sensitive skin through the thin fabric of his boxers. House groaned, shifting his weight around on his feet until the heel of his right boot was digging marginally into Jimmy’s thigh as the muscles of his left leg flexed hard, bearing forward against Wilson. His hips did a twisty little press, grinding his clothed erection down against Wilson’s. Heat barbed up along his spine, hooking in the cradle of his hips. Jimmy crowded up against him, working their hips together in the best possible way before reaching for House’s zipper. The feeling of Wilson undoing his fly set a fire burning in his belly. It was uncoordinated, and only then did House realize it was easier for him, what with his hands being freer than Wilson’s. He batted Jimmy’s hand away, earning him the younger man’s face tucked in tight against his throat as Wilson rocked against him impatiently, which made it a little more difficult for him to focus because rarely was the younger man impatient like that. House managed to struggle his button, his zipper open while Wilson focused on his own, made much harder than it needed to be because Wilson wouldn’t stop fucking biting and sucking along his pulse point. His head thumped back against the door with a whine.

And it was a bit of an awkward shuffle, getting their jeans and boxers out of the way, and House’s articles of clothing were still hooked around his left ankle. Not to mention Wilson’s were just pushed down around his knees like they were a couple of teenagers who couldn’t wait to get their hands on each other. Or preferably Wilson’s dick in House, as the younger man crushed their hips together, finally rocking skin to skin. His head thumped back against the door as he groaned, hips canting forward into the grind of Jimmy’s frame. And thank Christ for Wilson’s hand hooked up under his wreck of a thigh, because he knew without a doubt that it wouldn’t hold his weight, not with the way the younger man was grinding filthily against him. Because the sensation punched down hotly into him, twisting his guts up as he tried to get a better angle, shuffling forward haphazardly until he was wedged with his shoulders crammed up against the door and his hips pressing hard against Jimmy’s. He rolled his hips backward into the younger man as he gripped hard at the doorknob and scrabbled helplessly at the wall before digging his fingers into Wilson’s shirt, pulling the younger man closer.

Their mouths crushed together, open and panting as Jimmy’s hand slid down off the door to grasp at his ass, blunt fingers digging into the meat of his cheek as Wilson crowded closer to pull House’s hips forward. That grip was possessive, just on the right side of bruising House was pretty certain. Jimmy pulled him up to meet the younger man’s rock, his indecently obscene grind of hips. House’s dick twitched, dribbling precum at the feeling of Wilson’s length rutting up against his. That pleasure was corkscrewing along his spine, getting stuck in the barbs of his vertebrae as Jimmy licked past his teeth. House slipped his hand upward, hooking his arm around Wilson’s neck to try and get himself into a better position to grind down against the younger man. He curled his fingers in Wilson’s shirt, trying to pull the younger man closer, which was pretty much impossible unless Jimmy decided to crack his chest open and climb inside his ribs. Not that Wilson didn’t _try_ to get closer.

“Gotta get the lube,” Wilson bit out, grinding his hips down in a filthy slide of precum and sweat, rocking impatiently against House. But God help him, he wanted. He wanted so much in that moment, with their lengths crushed together hot and velvety hard, slick with precum and sweat. Because Jimmy was rocking up against him, their skin sticking and sliding together in the best way. House wanted to feel it, that viscerally _alive_ ache of a proper fucking. He wanted to feel it when he moved, when he sat, when he _breathed_. His fingers dug hard into the meat of Wilson’s shoulder with some choked out whimper-moan that crushed itself from his lungs. The word wheezed out of him.

“Spit.”

Which probably hadn’t been the best way to approach that, because Wilson froze almost immediately, with House pinned there against the door by the younger man’s weight. It definitely wasn’t a practical option and was probably biting off more than he could chew, but Jimmy’s dick twitched eagerly at that possibility. And House’s dick jumped in answering anticipation, even if he wasn’t entirely sure how long Wilson would be able to hold that position. Because personally, his arm was starting to get tired, even with that little bit of extra muscle from using the cane all the time for so damn long. His nonfucked leg was starting to feel a little tight, like it was only seconds from cramping up. Not to mention Wilson kept shifting his grip on House’s thigh like his leg was getting heavy and Jimmy was constantly trying to find better purchase. Which when combined, all of those things were a good indication they should move it to the bed, but House was pretty taken with the idea of the younger man fucking him against the door.

“Spit,” Wilson repeated slowly, his tone edged with disbelief, like House had recommended something totally insane. Completely overlooking that spit had better glide than water and that they had, in fact, used it before. Not for _that_ , but for other things. Namely a hand job in a giant Ferris wheel, but that was all just semantics anyway. “You want me to use _spit_ ,” Jimmy repeated once more, in that same low voice like House had lost his damn mind. But House could see that dark, hungry spark in Wilson’s eyes; the one that _always_ sparked when he suggested somewhat unconventional sexual endeavors.

“Unless you don’t want to fuck me,” House managed to huff in mock indignation, curling his fingers more tightly around the doorhandle as he shuffled his foot backward until his leg was more firmly under him, bearing more of his weight.

If House had expected some kind of verbal response, he was sorely mistaken. Instead, Wilson had simply stuck fingers in his mouth, cheeks hollowing as his tongue licked around those digits. And it was hotter than it had any right before, punching down into him and twisting that want up tight. He swallowed roughly, because the only way House could imagine it being any better was if Wilson’s fingers had been in _his_ mouth. Those fingers popped free of Jimmy’s lips, slick and glimmering wetly. And the brush of spit-slick skin against him was so good, coaxing an embarrassing noise from House’s lungs as fingers pressed up against his rim with little preamble. Again, he thought maybe it was a bad idea; Wilson probably thought so as well, because he hadn’t moved to press those fingers up into him. Instead, he was just staring at House, waiting for House to make up his mind probably. After all, House would be the one taking the brunt of it. It was _his_ ass on the line, literally, not Wilson’s. But House was committed, and pressed his hips back into that incessant touch, sliding his hand up into Wilson’s hair and pulling him in for a searing kiss, licking past Jimmy’s teeth.

Wilson swallowed that embarrassing whine of a noise that House emitted when those fingers slid up into him, slow but constant. The younger man boxed up against him, working him open quickly. His dick jumped, drooling in anticipation, because it was just the right side of too rough. The stretch of his rim was sharp, hurried, and his muscles clenched around Jimmy’s fingers, his body pressing down against that touch because Wilson was pressing further up into the tight clench of House’s body. His fingers curled in Jimmy’s hair tightly, trying to pull the younger man closer. “Would you just fuck me already,” House huffed against Wilson’s lips, his hips pressing down impatiently. House could feel Jimmy’s smile where their lips crushed together, but Wilson pulled back, putting way too much space between them for House’s liking. Before he could say so, Wilson’s fingers had curled around his dick, pulling roughly in a way that had House’s hips bucking up into that grip with a groan. But it wasn’t like House could get into it, fucking up into the tight clench of Wilson’s fingers, because Jimmy pulled his hand away. And it felt like a dirty tease, and he _definitely_ didn’t whine. How could he because Wilson was spitting into his precum-slick palm in such a way that spoke to them _finally_ getting to the main event, twisting House’s guts up with want.

“You’re sure,” Jimmy asked, crowding just a little closer as he stroked himself. The slick sound of Wilson’s palm against his length wrenched at House’s muscles, making his rim clench pitifully. And House was pretty sure if the younger man just didn’t get to fucking him, they’d wind up in a heap on the floor because his arm was definitely a little tired and that was definitely a cramp taking up in his left thigh, high up and near the crease of his ass.

“If we wind up on the floor because you talk too much,” House started, teeth gritting because the Vicodin was wearing off and no matter how careful Wilson was with his leg, it was still starting to ache a little. Wilson leaned forward to nip at his bottom lip, pressing his tip up against House’s rim, and his whole body clenched before he forced himself to relax a little. Jimmy drove his hips forward, and it was reflex to dig his hand harder into Wilson’s shoulder, knotting his fingers in the younger man’s shirt as House’s head banged back against the door. He was _maybe_ rethinking the whole spit as lube thing because Jimmy wasn’t exactly small, and that position had all his muscles screwed up tight. Not that it mattered though, because Wilson was crushing his hips forward, making space for himself in the hot clench of House’s body. House bit at his bottom lip, smothering down the whine that was trying to claw its way out of his throat as Wilson finally bottomed out, his hips crushed against House’s ass.

And for once, Wilson didn’t wait for him to adjust, which definitely squeezed that whine out of his chest as the younger man fucked into him in sharp, shallow thrusts. Wilson’s face was pressed in against his neck, teeth closing around the crook, and House was _very_ okay with that hurt, especially if it meant that Wilson left a mark. And the younger man could be as hurried as he liked, so long as they didn’t end up on the floor. His ass clenched around Jimmy’s length as House wedged a hand between them to curl his fingers around his dick. House’s back swayed marginally as Jimmy crowded up closer against him, supporting a bit more of his weight and fucking into him quicker, his hand curling around House’s dick roughly. He let go of his length in order to grab Wilson’s shirt, pulling the younger man closer and jerking his hips down. He groaned at that sharp pleasure of Jimmy’s hand stripping along his cock, as Wilson wedged his lovely cock in deep and rocked and ground against House’s ass.

It was sloppy and rushed and hotter than it had any right being, and it yanked at his orgasm. Wilson’s teeth closed along his skin more firmly, stifling his groan as Jimmy came. Which apparently, that was what House had been waiting for, because that filthy slide, the flex of Wilson’s dick deep in his guts wrenched that pleasure free. And the feeling of cum drooling over Jimmy’s fingers, pulling over his twitching length was obscene and filthy and so fucking _perfect_ as Wilson ground up into him and wrung House’s orgasm from him.

The teeth at his neck became softer kisses. “I think that’s gonna mark,” Jimmy breathed against his skin, managing to sound a little contrite even as he pulled his tongue along the abused skin. House wagered he could feel each individual indent of Wilson’s teeth, which was hotter than it should have been, because House wasn’t a big person on bites but there was something proprietorial about it. About Wilson’s teeth on his skin, leaving behind evidence of himself for anyone to see.

“That’s because I’m not a chew toy,” he grumbled breathily, which earned him a huff of laughter.

“We should really move this to the bed,” Wilson muttered, finally letting his leg down. His shoulders slumped with soreness because neither of them was bright-eyed youths, but he kept House pressed to the door until he was sure House’s wrecked thigh would hold his weight. Which that was, oddly enough, the most courteous thing the younger man had done the last few minutes and made affection bloom strangely in House’s chest. And he would have been all for soaking in the afterglow a bit longer, even with cum already seeping down his thighs, but his leg was bitching at him roughly and he really wasn’t a big fan of seminal fluids drying on his skin.

“Yep,” he huffed, pushing at Wilson until the younger man stepped away. “I call first shower,” House quipped, limping slightly as he headed for the bathroom and reveling in the ache of his ass. Behind him, Jimmy laughed softly until House closed the door on that sound. He caught sight of that mark in the mirror, ran his fingertips over it gingerly because sure enough, there were perfect imprints, rimmed in red and already bruising where the blood vessels had been crushed. House pressed down on it, groaning lowly as that sharp pleasure-pain corkscrewed into him. Irrationally, it pulled a smile to the corners of his mouth as he turned to start the shower.

After what felt like forever, but had only been roughly a week, House was _really_ tired of I-75 North.

And it probably didn’t help that his ass was still sore.

Or that it was like whoever had named the towns in Michigan was determined to outdo the guy from South Carolina when it came to stupid names. Or maybe the guy from South Carolina had just moved north and gotten lazy because there were a _lot_ of townships. House wasn’t entirely sure what the point of that was, because they’d gone through Ann Arbor and then through Ann Arbor Charter Township. And then they’d gone through Fenton, followed by Fenton Township. And on one miraculous occasion, Flint had been on the right side of I-75 and Flint Township had been on the left, which just kind of seemed a little bit like poor planning that no one wanted to admit to. The further north they’d gone, the cities eventually stopped being a two-part deal and had just settled into townships, like the guy in charge of naming places just got tired of repeating himself. Because there was Vienna Township. And then Bridgeport Township. And then Buena Vista Township.

They stayed the night in Zilwaukee purely because it was the most interesting name since they’d driven past Ypsilanti, and House had a fun time saying it. He had an even more fun time when Jimmy got tired of hearing him say it and shut him up with filthy kisses.

He had hoped, after that, that the cities and towns would be named better things. And they had, to some extent, but House had the feeling that that was mostly due to the fact that substantial clusters of society seemed to be fewer and farther between the further north they went. If he’d been asked, he would have never imagined Michigan to be so _green_ , because it had tapered out into forests and farmlands only dotted with civilization. Which definitely wasn’t what he had expected, because House had been expecting the smoggy, dirty jungles of Detroit, Grand Rapids, and Flint. Not the stretched thin towns they passed, like the settlers of a bygone time had given up on Michigan and left it to the natives. Right until they reached Mackinaw, because the city seemingly bloomed where it was trapped between the lake and the forest.

And if House had been apprehensive about the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, he was completely uncertain about the fucking Mackinac Bridge where it stretched out over the dark waters of the lake. Because whoever had had the bright idea to build a suspension bridge over what was essentially a _sea_ was a special kind of stupid. And the city was _proud_ of it he realized when they stopped for a bite to eat and their waitress rambled on about what she affectionately referred to as the Mighty Mac. When she finally wandered away, leaving their check behind, House had looked over at Jimmy as the younger man had reached for the check and simply said, “This counts.”

Because there was no way in _fuck_ he would have traversed that absolutely _terrifying_ five miles – the longest of his life by far – for it to not count as a bucket list item. Again, House had kind of rethought the practicality of motorcycles as a road trip vehicle, because he had psyched himself out about the bridge, had convinced himself he could feel it swaying under the tires. Lake Michigan had been something beautiful but gut-wrenching, murky like steel blue and glimmering in the sunshine through the slats of the suspenders of the bridge while its wind cut briskly at his cheeks. The sight of it spanning out on all sides had yanked at some hindbrain instinct that demanded there be solid land under his feet. And by the time they had gotten to the other side, House could one hundred percent understand why there had been a fleet of drivers ready to play chauffeur for uneasy commuters.

If settlers had at least _attempted_ making a go of the Lower Peninsula, they had pretty much just waved the Upper Peninsula off as a lost cause, because the longer they drove on US-2 West, the less they saw of people. They passed the occasional truck or SUV loaded with teenagers and pulling a trailer of canoes, but other than that it was mostly just stretches of trees. And then the trees disappeared, dissolving into sand and waves as they drove along the upper coast of Lake Michigan before they rose once more. And the first substantial almost-town they came across, materializing out of the forest like some sort of mirage, happened to be called Naubinway. Which _definitely_ warranted them stopping for gas only to turn into them staying the night, with Jimmy tucked in against his side and the younger man’s head on his chest.

North, north, north they drove.

Jimmy had insisted they stop in a place that was, _honest to God_ , called Christmas. Which was cringe-worthy in itself, but the whole town had seemingly embraced the Christmas theme, because there were street signs and business names all geared toward that monster of a holiday. “I just wanted to see Christmas one more time,” Wilson quipped, even as his wan smile pulled downward at the corners. Any levity in his tone fell with all the heaviness of a stone as he leaned into House’s shoulder, watching greenish water lap at the rocky beach.

“You’re Jewish,” House huffed out, trying desperately to not sink into the younger man’s sentence. Because thinking about it would just let the whole thing fucking unravel, and as it was House was barely keeping in together. With August right around the corner, his mind had so helpfully taken to keeping a running tally of days left. Unknowing of his thoughts, or finally immune to his worries, Jimmy had just left him to chase after the sound of his laughter as they continued on their way up north.

The waters of Lake Superior were infinitely darker, more serious as they lapped against the beach as they continued onward. Time felt like a languid thing, pulled long and slow, almost stopping as they drove. Because with that wind on their cheeks, that sun on their face it felt like nothing could touch them. It was almost easy to forget that death chased on their heels. And eventually, they laid claim to that town, tucked into the wilderness of the Upper Peninsula and cradled by the dark edges of the lake. Marquette was beautiful and quaint, with its crowded storefronts and lazy traffic. It struck a memory of most college towns back in the Northeast, all brick and cream bones and an active, youthful atmosphere. Somehow it felt right in a way that none of the other stops before had.

It felt a little bit like home.

And James Wilson had picked there to die.


	2. You'll come apart and you'll go black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michigan is soft - like *soft* soft.  
> So. Fucking. Soft.
> 
>   
> Not to mention holy *fuck* what a mad dash to not hit Valentine's Day with this.

How had it only been something like a couple weeks ago since they had settled down in Marquette?

Because it had only been a couple weeks since the younger man had taken notice of a flyer about a cabin for rent on a corkboard and looked at House with dark eyes that glittered with want. Because that picture was all it had taken for Wilson to rip the number off the flyer and beg to use the phone in that shabby little diner just outside the city limits. And then, after more game than House had ever seen Wilson spit when there _wasn’t_ sex to be had, the younger man had turned to him with the brightest smile and said we got it.

Just a couple of weeks since House had glanced over at Jimmy, watching as the younger man handed over something like fifteen thousand dollars to the young couple to rent their house for the last two months of Wilson’s life. Vaguely, House had wondered if Wilson had mentioned the whole _dying_ thing to those kids, not that it mattered. Because Jimmy was polite and easy going, with a gentle smile and kind eyes. Nothing about him screamed impending doom. Especially nothing that would make the young couple turn away from the going rate to rent per night plus a little extra.

Just two weeks since that young couple had driven away, and Wilson had looped his arm through House’s, smiling up at the little cabin like Jimmy finally had the life he’d always wanted. His smile had pushed House’s attention to the front of the cabin as well. It was quaint and cozy, something like a modified A-frame made of narrow planks and tucked into the woods with the lawn butting right up against the rocky coast of the lake. And maybe that really was the life they’d always been made to live, because there they were, standing on the edge of the lawn like some sort of fairy tale, looking up at a cabin full of windows and listening to the lull of waves drifting through the trees. With his heart feeling too full, House had glanced over at Jimmy as Wilson leaned his head against House’s shoulder. The younger man’s hair had grown, just beginning to curl there at the tips of his ears and fall into his eyes. There had been something endearingly youthful about it, which seemed preposterous to say about hair of all things. House had pushed his fingers through those dark strands just because he could, watching it pull a smile to Wilson’s lips before Jimmy had tipped his mouth up to House’s.

Just a couple of weeks ago, and the days had passed with lazy mornings and messy kisses, strewn with fragile domesticity since then.

And again, he wondered how it was at _all_ fair that he had had to die, if only in name alone, in order to live his best life. Because how was it fair that he’d had to give everything up for the _one_ thing that mattered most? Not that it mattered though, because that was how House wanted to remember Jimmy as early morning sunshine washed into the kitchen, languid and golden, evaporating his breath in his lungs. Because Wilson’s smile was a small, precious thing just barely visible there around the edge of his coffee mug. His hair fell messily across his forehead, pushed back with long fingers only to fall forward once more. And House _knew_ he’d give up everything all over again for James Wilson. As many times as House needed to, as many times as that probably there, fucked up God would allow. Because that golden sunshine highlighted the sharpening edges of Jimmy’s face, the line of his shoulders as the younger man leaned against the sink and sipped his coffee. And thank God for whoever had had the brilliant idea to heat those wooden floors, House thought as he flexed his bare feet against the warm boards, because it allowed him to stand there looking at Jimmy. There was something domestic and cozy about Wilson there, surrounded by pine cabinets and wide windows that overlooked the lake, dressed in worn jeans with that stupid, beloved McGill sweatshirt and fuzzy socks. The younger man’s shoulders relaxed a bit with a slow sigh before he tipped his head up and looked at him, gave him that slow, soft smile that devastated House in the best way.

“Awake,” Jimmy started as House leaned up against the door jamb, pausing to sip his coffee. “Shake dreams from your hair; my pretty child, my pretty one. Choose the day and choose the sign of your day. The days divinity. First thing you see.” He leaned against the sink, pausing just long enough to take another sip of cooling coffee. “A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon. Couples, naked, race down by its quiet side. And we laugh like soft, mad children, smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy. The music and voices are all around us.” Wilson tipped his jaw up to face House, offering up that small smile. And Jimmy’s words pulled him closer by his heartstrings. “Choose, they croon, the ancient ones; the time has come again. Choose now, they croon. Beneath the moon; beside an ancient lake. Enter again the sweet forest; enter the hot dream. Come with us.”

They spoke the final verse together, as House bracketed the younger man against the sink. Their foreheads pressed together, sharing breath. And House could smell the heavy cream, the sugar that Wilson had sweetened his coffee with. “Everything is broken up and dance.”

Jimmy smiled softly, leaning in to press his mouth tenderly to House’s, placing sipping kisses to House’s lips before he pulled back. “I think I’ll take another cup outside,” Wilson muttered, his voice sounding squeezed tight. And House had a sinking, terrifying vision of Jimmy stepping out onto the rocky shoreline where Lake Superior licked up against the jasper and slag coast; saw the younger man losing his footing, slipping into a frigid lake with wheezed out breath and cracked bones and brilliantly red blood in dark water. He blinked it away.

“It’s barely above freezing,” he grumbled, pressing Jimmy closer to the sink, dropping his head to the crook of the younger man’s neck and inhaling that sleep-warmed scent of skin. He watched as the younger man dumped what was left of his mug in the sink and pointlessly rinsed it, as if any residual coffee left over would taint a fresh cup. “You could just take it out on the porch; plop down in that big wicker swing out there.” House placed kisses along Wilson’s shoulder.

Wilson’s fingers pushed back through his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp as Wilson upturned his mug on the counter to dry. The younger man hummed softly as he leaned back into House briefly before twisting away, heading toward the potbelly stove. “I’ll bundle up,” Jimmy promised as he crammed his feet down into boots. “Besides, you know how fall is. It’ll be sweltering by noon.”

And he tried not to pay too much attention, as House fixed himself a cup of coffee, but he was overly aware of Wilson shrugging the heavier jacket over his shoulders and covering his sweatshirt, as the younger man pulled the cheap-ass beanie down along his skull. Grumbling to himself, House fixed the ex-oncologist a fresh mug of coffee and carried it over to the doors. Brilliant sunshine poured through the wall of windows that made up the back of the house, providing a picturesque view of trees covered in brilliantly colored leaves, just a hint of the dark and choppy waters of Lake Superior beyond. Not for the first time did House wonder what the younger man thought when he went out to the lakeside, alone with thoughts much too loud as the wind whipped off the lake cold and cutting. Jimmy’s fingers curled around his, cupping his hand briefly before pulling the mug gently away. And Wilson’s breathing was a little drier, but still too raspy, like wind pushing through dead leaves. The ex-oncologist smiled, leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“You cannot touch these phantoms,” Wilson recited softly, which sounded a lot like _I love you_ , before pulling away. House let him go, watched the cool wind nearly tear the door from the younger man’s grasp before it closed as Jimmy stepped out onto the porch, headed across the weather-warped boards. House watched Wilson pick his way across the leaf-covered ground, slipping out past trees set aflame with the slow burn of autumn and heading for the dark expanse of water just beyond the browning lawn still tipped with frost. He leaned against the door frame, tightly clutching his own mug of coffee as House watched Jimmy become a smaller and smaller dark shape.

As always, he was torn between standing there like some forlorn fisherman’s wife awaiting the return of her beloved or finding something on TV. 

In the end, House cupped his coffee mug and cocked his hip against the door. He sipped the cooling liquid, watching his breath plume along the glass of the door. House rested against the door and watched the line between the lake and the lawn as if he expected Jimmy to appear at any moment. Not for the first time did House think about Wilson going out to that lake to die, if only to save them both from that heaviness. Because they had gone to Marquette and laid stake to it as a deathbed of sorts, where Wilson would have a final stand with Death and ultimately fall, because no one made it out of life alive. His chest tightened, drawing up against his lungs and squeezing his heart still because he definitely didn’t like thinking those thoughts. He rubbed at his forehead roughly as he hobbled into the kitchen and deposited his coffee mug in the sink before digging through the bag of groceries on the table.

It had only taken roughly three days to figure out that the kid next door could be bought to do _all_ their errands, and House had made the most of that little nugget of knowledge. Because if he never had to leave their borrowed cabin all the better. As far as he was concerned, the rest of the world had practically ceased to exist once they’d settled into that little lakeside homestead in the Upper Peninsula. He dug out the butcher paper, because the porkchops already needed to be brining if House had any hope of doing that recipe by the weekend. Thankfully, all that was missing were the porkchops as he washed the slabs of meat and laid them neatly in the Dutch oven in the fridge to brine. And honestly, Margot Wilson would have probably been impressed, him being a goy aside, because House had been doing a pretty fine job of taking care of her middle son as House put away the groceries. Which warranted a reward he wagered, digging the baggie of pre-rolled joints out of the groceries. And how had he never thought about the healing factors of cannabis for his leg before, because half a joint would file the edges of his leg pain off and leave him pleasantly floating for every bit as long as a Vicodin. He leaned against the sink and lit up, taking a lazy toke as he looked out over the yard, admittedly looking out for Jimmy, because Wilson was pretty adamant about them only smoking outside because it was apparently _rude_ to smoke inside a rented cabin. Scoffing to himself, House took another drag out of spite before exhaling, balancing the joint in the soap dish. He went about putting up the rest of the groceries before setting about cleaning the entire kitchen, even though it was pretty immaculate, if only to keep from waiting anxiously for Wilson to come back from the lakeside.

He was scrubbing the kitchen sink, of all things, when movement outside the kitchen window pulled his attention upward. And he watched Jimmy stroll leisurely across the yard, the younger man’s shoulders a relaxed line as he held onto the mug by its handle loosely. House toyed with the idea of snuffing the joint out on the countertop, but decided against it in the end, opting for just taking another slow drag. Only then did he think that maybe he should have lit a candle or maybe opened a window; something. With any luck, Wilson wouldn’t notice House told himself as the younger man tugged open the door while wiping his feet. But of course, Jimmy made a beeline for the kitchen to place his mug in the sink, giving House a look.

“We talked about smoking inside,” Jimmy huffed out, snagging the joint out of his fingers for a sip of a hit before handing it back, holding the smoke in his lungs as he dug the orange juice out of the fridge.

“We paid a lot of money to rent this place; I’d like to think our deposit will pay a cleaning fee,” House quipped. “Besides, not like we’ll be getting that money back anyway.”

“You know you pay extra for them pre-rolled, right,” Wilson said with an eyeroll as he changed the subject, exhaling smoke with each word as he pulled a glass from the cupboard, giving House a look.

“Just consider it energy efficient in the pursuit of getting high.”

“Lazy more like,” the younger man muttered as he focused on pouring his juice and returning the carton to the fridge.

House boxed Jimmy up against the counter, dipping his head to the crook of the younger man’s neck and inhaling the brisk scent of autumn sweetened by the scent of Jimmy’s skin. He nipped sharply at Wilson’s throat, pressing him closer to the edge of the countertop, his hands spreading on cool granite. “Lazy would be suggesting that we just take that joint to bed.” He pressed meandering kisses along Wilson’s neck, pulling his lips upward softly as House rocked his hips against Jimmy’s pert ass. “But I think it’s your turn to cook lunch.”

Wilson leaned back into him, his hips doing a lazy roll where his ass pressed up tight against House’s groin. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning as Jimmy twisted his head to kiss him sloppily over his shoulder. And House was completely fine with them just making out in the kitchen, but Wilson just pulled away with that single-minded attention. “What kind of proteins did you get from Jonas?”

“Whose Jonas,” House huffed, pressing even closer so he could press his lips to Wilson’s once more.

“The kid next door.” He could feel Jimmy’s smile as the younger man murmured against his mouth. “The one buying your pot for you.”

He just hummed, nipping at Wilson’s bottom lip and pressing closer. “Dunno.”

The younger man twisted out from under House with a huff of a sigh, heading for the fridge and tugging the doors open once more. House folded himself down in a kitchen chair and watched as Wilson set down a variety of items before Jimmy snagged the rest of the blunt from House’s fingertips. He tucked it between his teeth as Wilson looked down at the ingredients, toking slow and deep on the joint as he tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. Wisps of curling smoke softened the edges of Jimmy’s face as his gaze darted between the items he’d picked in thought, and House felt that fond smile cut at the inside of his mouth.

“You look like a damn hippie,” House teased, because Wilson’s hair had fallen messily into his eyes, and only the tired lines in Jimmy’s face truly leant age to him. Wilson drew more heavily on the blunt, lips pursing to blow smoke mockingly in House’s direction.

“You sure are good at sweet talk,” Jimmy quipped as he flicked the end of the roach in House’s direction before he crossed the small kitchen for a knife and a cutting board, tucking a wide bowl under his arm as he headed back to the table. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and boil me some orzo,” Wilson muttered as he cut the end off an onion, peeling and chopping it deftly before tugging at his sleeves in preparation for slicing mushrooms finely. House took a drag on the joint as Jimmy bent over, hips wiggling as he dug around in the lower cupboard for a skillet. It didn’t matter how often he had that ass, because seeing it with worn denim pulled taunt over it, House came to the startling realization he was still weak for Jimmy’s peachy-perfect cheeks. “Or at least open some wine,” Wilson grumbled, finally straightening as he tugged a large skillet free. “Preferably white.”

House watched Wilson slice butter into the skillet, cranking the heat on the stovetop before he dumped the mushrooms and onions in with a heaping spoonful of minced garlic. Only then did he realize that he was meant to be opening a bottle of white, because it was cloyingly domesticate just being in the kitchen with Jimmy. And House might have taken classes on cooking, could pull out sophisticated dishes on a whim, but Jimmy had learned at his Bubbie’s elbow that hearty food was good for the soul. The cork sucked free with a pop, and House poured them each a relatively full glass. On the premise of taking Jimmy his glass, House crowded the younger man against the edge of the stove, leaning heavily into Wilson as the smell of sweating onions and browning butter drifted into the air.

“You have some pretty sophisticated munchies,” House teased, leaning in to nibble his way up the line of Wilson’s neck, earning him a soft hum as the younger man tipped his head to the side slightly to offer up more of that delicate throat. He caught hold of Jimmy’s earlobe with his teeth, biting down softly. He watched as sun dried tomatoes and heavy cream, spinach and parmesan were dumped into the skillet. They shared sips of wine and lazy kisses before the younger man pulled away, retrieving the shrimp from the fridge while House started the orzo he’d been tasked with starting somewhere close to twenty minutes prior. House stirred the pasta as he watched Wilson peel the shrimp, running the tip of his thumb up along the crustaceans, following what would have been the spine if the creatures had bones.

“Just because I have good taste doesn’t give you the go-ahead to mock me,” Wilson finally huffed out as he dumped the shrimp in the skillet, eyeroll implied as he folded the shellfish into the sauce.

“Yes, you do,” he leered, stepping around to snag an arm around Wilson’s waist, pulling him in for a searing kiss as he backed the younger man into the corner of the cabinets. Jimmy looped his arms lazily over House’s neck, pulling him closer as they shared kisses until his words hit home.

“Wait. That sounds oddly like you’re complimenting yourself,” the younger man started, leaning back to give House a look. “Which is less nice than if you were complimenting me.”

“I can’t help it if you had horrible taste in ties.”

Jimmy breathed out a laugh as he rolled his eyes, pushing at House’s chest lightly. “Okay, we’re done here, you ass.”

He caught hold of Wilson’s wrists and leaned in with a sharp-edged grin. “Why Jimmy, surely you wouldn’t hit a cripple,” House scoffed, before he remembered that Wilson had, _in fact_ , hit him before. With House’s go-ahead of course, but that didn’t negate the fact that Jimmy had hit him. “Without permission,” he amended quickly enough to pull a smile to Wilson’s lips.

“I hit you _one_ time,” Jimmy scoffed, rolling his eyes and tugging at his wrists. “And you _said_ I could.”

“Our friendship started with a bar fight,” House countered playfully. “I bailed you out of _jail_. Don’t act like some sort of choir boy,” he snipped, because there was something pretty special about Jimmy being anything _other_ than the strait-laced Boy Scout his mother had made him up to be. Wilson just rolled his eyes and pushed past him, returning to his spot at the stove.

“You _would_ bring that up,” the younger man huffed, snatching up the wooden spoon to stir the sauce.

House scoffed mockingly and folded himself along Jimmy’s back, winding his arms around Wilson’s waist as he snugged up against the younger man. He buried his face in the crook of the younger man’s neck as House peered over his shoulder and pressed closer. Those three little words clotted in his throat, choking him because that cloying domesticity clotted in his throat, tightened in his chest as he watched Wilson stir. It didn’t matter that he was being clingy, that he wanted to spend every free moment touching the younger man in some capacity, because Jimmy was dying. Who knew how much longer he’d be able to spend his days in that easy companionship?

“Can you set the table,” Wilson asked, tipping his head back against House’s slightly. “Instead of just hovering,” he teased, but there he was leaning back into House like he was being pulled back by the gravity of House’s embrace.

And while House was loathed to give up any contact with the younger man, he went. Even if he made a deal of it, grumbling churlishly and setting silverware down a bit too hard. But when he glanced over at Wilson, he could see the fond smile there, curling at the edges of the younger man’s lips. House figured he could forgive him, just that once. Because that was how he wanted to remember Jimmy, with his sleeves pushed up somewhere near his elbows and his hip cocked as he leaned against the stove. With washed out sunshine filtering through the kitchen window and an easy smile playing at the edges of his mouth as Wilson went about cooking the meal, looking fond as his hair fell into his face. Because he looked so at peace that House’s heart cinched up tight in his chest, choking House with those three little, monstrously big words. But instead, House just waited for his lunch. He sat at the table and only picked at his food when Wilson deposited a bowl in front of him, pulling the prongs of his fork through it aimlessly and nibbling, even if it was good. He quipped and snarked with Jimmy as they shared their meal. And at the end of it, House just dropped down on the leather sofa, with his belly full and laziness in his bones; the monstrous couch sucked at his hips as he sunk into the cushions. House closed his eyes, tipping his head back as Jimmy fiddled with the sound system.

His heart skipped a beat as the first few notes of dulce bass strings and bright piano keys drifted into existence, because out there in the wilderness Wilson had taken to Norah Jones. _Don’t Know Why_ sunk down into him, steeped him. Those lyrics clawed past the bones of his chest and burned his heart to ash because that album was trying to break his fucking heart, which Jimmy was already doing a pretty good job of that. Because how was House expected to face the world without Wilson at his side?

Wilson dropped down on the sofa next to him, tucked in against his side as the younger man poured them both a healthy measure of scotch. The amber liquor caught the sunlight where it fell through the windows, even as Jimmy left their glasses on the coffee table like some thought had stolen into his mind and distracted him. And Wilson’s smile was a small thing as he looked out the windows, tipping his head to House’s shoulder, so House figured he could overlook the scotch left on the table. He swallowed hard, turning as best he could to let the younger man sink more firmly into his chest, tilting his head down to press his forehead to Wilson’s dark hair. And somehow the scent of autumn had saturated Wilson’s skin, like crisp breezes and brittle leaves and woodsmoke nights. He pushed his fingers through Jimmy’s hair, huffing out a soft sigh.

“I hate this album,” House grumbled.

“Oh, do you,” Wilson teased, tilting his head toward House. “So, it wasn’t you humming _Turn Me On_ in the kitchen this morning?”

House could practically feel Jimmy’s smile. He cupped Wilson’s jaw, tipping his mouth up for a soft kiss. “Nope. Not me.” He pressed another kiss, if only because he could. He tried not to think about the limited amount of kisses Jimmy had left to give. Wilson bit at his bottom lip gently before pulling back.

“You are thinking _really_ loudly right now,” the younger man huffed out, his eyebrows twitching upward in question.

“You cannot touch these phantoms,” he softly mocked, because that poem was so much easier than expressing his thoughts. Because they were way too loud, roughly edged and biting as they rattled and fought inside the bone arena of his skull. And House couldn’t be blamed if he used Jimmy’s trick to twist his way out of talking about them. “Isn’t that what you tell me?”

“Yeah. When I don’t want to talk about it,” Wilson grumbled softly, pressing his forehead to House’s. “And we should probably talk about this.”

His guts clenched against those words. Because the key phrase there was _we should probably talk_ , and that phrase tore relationships down, shattered worlds, and ripped apart lives. “Or.” He dropped another kiss to Jimmy’s lips. “We could have our scotch and make out on the couch.”

“We can do that afterwards.”

He slipped his fingers backward, pushing through the younger man’s hair. House pulled until Jimmy was pressing against his hip, practically resting on his chest as their noses bumped softly. “ _Or_ we can do it first,” House countered. And he could feel Wilson’s smile as they shared tenderhearted kisses; the expression carved at him, because how was it fair that they both finally had what they wanted only for a mounting deadline to have been imposed?

“Greg, we really need to talk about it.” Wilson pulled back marginally, pressing a palm hotly against House’s chest. Soft strumming filled the room as _Painter Song_ drifted out of hidden speakers.

“It can wait,” he insisted, chasing after Jimmy to press his mouth to those soft lips.

“And if we run out of time,” the younger man bit out sharply, twisting free to peer up at him with wet eyes. Those tears were swept away with a flurry of rapid blinks, as if Wilson refused to ruin his last days spent with House with useless emotions, for probably the first time in his life. House watched Jimmy’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, shaking his head as if he could shake away those thoughts. But House knew the claws those phantoms had, knew intimately the way they dug down into flesh and hooked at bone and _pulled._

“I love you,” House breathed out as his palms caught along the younger man’s jaw, desperate to carve those words from the damp inside of his chest, as if that might make the situation more bearable. As if talking about something so viscerally _alive_ as love would wash the stale crush of death from the younger man’s mind. Not to mention, he should probably tell Jimmy them before he couldn’t. Wilson looked up at him, those dark eyes blinking rapidly in surprise because House had never _specifically_ said those three words. At least, not out loud to an awake Wilson. Never mind that he’d been quietly whispering that devotion practically every day for the last month, ever since Tennessee. “And I would rather do something about that than talk about those phantoms, Jimmy.” He swallowed hard, tipping his mouth down to Wilson’s.

Wilson made a soft, broken noise into the kiss as he pressed tighter against House’s chest. Jimmy leaned against him hotly, the younger man’s fingers curling in his shirt as his lips opened. And House licked up into Jimmy’s mouth, tangling wetly with Wilson’s tongue as he dug his fingers down into Wilson’s hip and ass, pulling the younger man closer. Their hips rocked together as Wilson climbed up into his lap, straddling his hips and pressing him more firmly into the couch as Jimmy’s arms slipped around his neck. House clenched at his handfuls of flesh, squeezing and pulling at Wilson’s ass as his hips tipped upward. Wilson pulled back just barely, his breath flaring damply against House’s mouth. “You love me,” Jimmy breathed out softly, his nose bumping against House’s lightly before Wilson pressed a brief kiss to the corner of House’s mouth.

House’s heart cinched up tight because he felt like a small, vulnerable thing. Like Jimmy was poking at his tender underbelly. But he willingly went, offered up those pieces of himself to the younger man as he tightened his arms around Wilson’s hips because who knew how much time they had left. “The last time I told you, you didn’t believe me,” he mockingly pouted at the younger man, twisting his mouth into an exaggerated moue to play off how much that had hurt. Because he still saw Jimmy at his bedside, like he’d always done whenever House had done something stupid and heard the soft hum of the younger man brushing his words away as he upped House’s pain meds. All those years later, it still carved at him that Jimmy hadn’t believed him, as if House would lie about _that_. Never mind that _everyone lies_ was seemingly the only absolute of life. Wilson pulled back further in surprise, blinking rapidly at House.

“You meant that,” Jimmy breathed out, even as his forehead furrowed like he was looking for the lie.

“Course Jimmy,” he scoffed gently. “Did you think I was just blowing smoke,” House tried to tease as he tipped his head forward, pressing his lips to Wilson’s. The younger man’s mouth opened with a soft noise, his tongue pressing forward to slip against House’s as Jimmy pressed him back into the crook of the sofa’s arm more firmly. House groaned, tightening his arms around Wilson’s hips and pulling him impossibly closer. The younger man’s hips rolled down against his languidly as Jimmy’s lips pulled back just barely, his hands knotting in House’s shirt in a clearly possessive manner.

“I might’ve,” Wilson breathed against his lips, rubbing his nose gingerly against House’s as he leaned in closer. “Addiction is a powerful force,” Jimmy muttered, his syllables only barely tilting up teasingly as he pressed his forehead to House’s, so his words came out sounding like something out of a Narcotics Anonymous handbook. And House’s chest ached at that, because of all his addictions, Jimmy had been the only one he hadn’t been able to give up. The only one he hadn’t _wanted_ to give up. The one he hadn’t been _willing_ to give up. And even with years of crippling hurts dealt and knock-down drag-out fights stirred up, Wilson had remained a mainstay in his life. He had a sinking suspicion that nothing would ever carve his feelings for James Wilson from his chest.

House swallowed hard and tipped his head forward, nearly pressing his mouth to Wilson’s. That close, he could taste Jimmy’s breath. “You’re the only addiction I couldn’t kick,” he quipped mockingly, trying to play off how true that statement was, because Greg House didn’t say corny shit like that. Not that joking about it made the sentiment any less true. His voice squeezed tight as he muttered it again, “I love you.” And blatant cheesiness aside, it had apparently been the right thing to say as Wilson’s lips pressed roughly against his. Fingers twisted in his hair and pulled, like suddenly there was too much space between them, regardless of the fact that there was practically no space already. House slipped his hands up under Jimmy’s shirt, running palms along soft skin as his fingers spread on the younger man’s sides.

The kiss gentled to just the soft brush of softer lips. “It took you long enough,” Wilson finally murmured, tipping his forehead against House’s, just breathing. That close, House wagered he could count each of Jimmy’s individual eyelashes, each glimmer of almost-gold in those dark eyes. “Thought you were gonna let me die without that,” Jimmy teased softly, his bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout as his palm curled around House’s jaw, his thumb brushing along the slope of House’s cheek. But there was a softness in his shoulders, at the corners of his mouth that spoke volumes of truth. Namely that Jimmy had believed he would die without House cutting those words from his heart, had _resigned_ himself to it.

His chest cinched at that, even as his mind scrambled to pick apart the younger man’s words. Because Wilson said it like he knew, and that _bastard_ , he probably _had._ Jimmy _always_ saw too much, knew too much, read House’s emotions like a blind man read fucking braille. House fought the urge to groan, to drop his head back from the younger man’s touch. His fingers curled around the back of Jimmy’s neck, squeezing lightly. “Jimmy,” he started in, tone low and heavy with about a million questions. Wilson just smiled softly, leaning in to press kisses along House’s jaw, nipping at his earlobe. His breath whispered hotly along the delicate curls of cartilage as he hummed, sending a scattering of goosebumps along House’s forearms, raising the short hairs at the back of his neck. House groaned and let himself be distracted, as he dug his fingers through Wilson’s dark hair and pulled roughly until the younger man was kissing him. It was messy and _good_ , with teeth clacking and too much tongue, and the hot weight of Wilson pressing him back into the sofa.

“Bedroom,” Jimmy mumbled against his lips, only to kiss House again, his fingers pushing through House’s hair aimlessly. And House just hummed, one of his hands spreading along Wilson’s lower back, the other slipping up along his ribs like he could pull the ex-oncologist closer. Like their bodies weren’t already crushed together. He was perfectly content to keep making out on the couch like a couple of teens, but Wilson pulled back and slipped off his lap. The younger man stopped just long enough to dump his glass of forgotten scotch past his teeth before heading in the direction of the bedroom. House groaned, tipping his head back against the couch before pushing himself to his feet. Wincing, because his jeans were definitely a little tight, he adjusted his dick in unforgiving denim and grabbed up his glass, swallowing roughly at that burn. And while scotch was made for sipping, he had an attractive younger man stripping down in the bedroom, so House could hardly be blamed for rushing through his drink to get his ass in gear before chasing after Jimmy.

At the end of the short hall, sunshine washed through the bedroom curtains, turning the room into something golden as House tugged his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor as he stepped through the door. And Wilson had only managed to get halfway naked, striped down to his jeans, but the sight of the younger man at the foot of the bed tugged anxiously at House’s guts. It was hard to overlook the ridges of bone pressed up hard against Jimmy’s skin because Wilson’s form had been made for a few extra pounds. But instead of soft, slow curves, there were the younger man’s ribs digging shallow furrows into flesh and the long line of Jimmy’s shoulders cutting at skin and the softened mountain ridge of his spine. Not that any of that truly mattered overly much right then, because Wilson was busy undoing the fly of his jeans and pushing that flattering denim down over his hips. And _Jesus,_ House really was weak for that ass as Jimmy shoved his jeans down and kicked them away, crawling onto the bed dressed only in his boxers.

He groaned, working his jeans open as House staggered forward, shoving impatiently at worn denim. He nearly tripped getting out of them as he crawled onto the mattress after Jimmy. House bracketed Wilson to the bed, folding his arms on either side of the younger man’s head as he brought his good thigh up, pressing it between Wilson’s legs and grinding his thigh down against the hard line of Jimmy’s erection. The younger man’s nails curled against his skin, pulling as Wilson’s hips jerked upward with a low, punched-out noise. The hard line of Wilson’s cock slid up his thigh, ground down into the join of his groin as House rolled his hips downward roughly. House stretched over him, pinning Wilson to the bedclothes as his head dipped for a searing kiss, biting and licking at Jimmy’s mouth impatiently. He tried to quell the fire of want in his belly, but honestly as he smoothed his palm along Jimmy’s side, it was difficult to bank that flame. Because he _wanted_ ; holy _fuck_ how he _wanted_. House dipped his mouth to Wilson’s neck, kissing and nipping along the thump of the other man’s pulse. He crushed their hips together, groaning against the soft column of Wilson’s throat because Jimmy’s length was hot and heavy where it pressed against his, barely softened by the fabric of their boxers.

Jimmy’s hand threaded through his hair, pulling his mouth to the younger man’s; soft lips were already parted in invitation before their mouths crushed together, and it was impossible not to lick up behind Jimmy’s teeth. Wilson’s tongue tangled wetly with his, as deft fingers knotted sharply in his hair and tugged. A moan rattled free between them, steeped into that kiss as Wilson bullied his tongue more thoroughly into House’s mouth, the sharp edge of the younger man’s teeth pressing firmly against his lips. House groaned, his fingers curling around the waistband of Jimmy’s boxers as he pinned the younger man down against the mattress. He tugged slightly, feeling the fabric slip down around Jimmy’s hips. House rubbed his thumbs slowly along the curve of bone as he pulled back, sucking in heaving breaths as his eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of Jimmy spread out under him. Wilson’s lips were already bruised, kiss swollen from House’s passion, so pretty it almost _hurt_ with Jimmy’s skin flushed and his dark lashes fanned on fetchingly pinkened cheeks. House spread his fingers wide, curling around the juts of Jimmy’s hips and squeezing slightly. Wilson’s dark eyes fluttered open, impossibly endless as they peered up at House hotly, as the younger man’s lips twisted at the corner coyly. Jimmy’s fingers knotted once more in the hair at the back of his skull as his other hand hooked between House’s shoulder blades, tugging him down for a softer, deeper kiss. That passion was a different kind, languidly corkscrewing up between his bones, burning the air from his lungs as Jimmy licked up into his mouth lazily. House groaned into the kiss as his hands slipped upward, spreading along Wilson’s sides as he pressed Jimmy down into the bedclothes, kissing the younger man eagerly.

And he knew he should savor it, should cherish the moment, but House had always been so greedy when it came to the younger man. Not to mention they had had plenty of firsts, so the act in itself didn’t need to be tender, illustrative of their feelings for one another. What did it matter if it had been the first time House had proclaimed those three little, devastatingly monstrous words? Jimmy was hardly a blushing virgin on her wedding night. And those words _alone_ were more than enough. Or so he tried to tell himself, but still the kiss was gentling as House smoothed his palms up over Wilson’s ribs, fingers splayed as if to touch all the skin he could. He placed soft kisses along Jimmy’s jaw as his thumbs brushed over the younger man’s nipples and back down along the flesh-softened ridges of his sternum in something akin to worship. Wilson’s head tipped back with a soft, broken sound, his fingers curling at House with a whimper as Jimmy tugged his mouth back for another kiss. House smoothed his thumbs through the muted grooves of Jimmy’s ribs before curling his hands around that deceptively fragile cage of collagen and calcium, feeling it expand with each heavy breath as he licked lazily into Wilson’s mouth. He broke the kiss with a shuddering inhale, planting a hand on the mattress to steady himself as he panted. House pulled his gaze along the younger man’s chest, where the pale expanse of it was flushed with arousal, stained with a blush. He followed it where it burned along Jimmy’s neck, followed the flush back to the source where it spilled downward from Wilson’s cheeks.

Wilson tipped his head back into the pillows as he blinked curiously up at House with those dark eyes, his lips kiss swollen and his cheeks flushed attractively. House smoothed his palm over the pound of the younger man’s heart, balanced over Jimmy and pressing the ex-oncologist slightly down into the mattress like he could keep Jimmy _there_. Wilson’s expression softened marginally as if he suddenly understood everything. His hand spread hotly over the back of House’s, pressing down until the staccato beat of Jimmy’s heart pounded itself firmly into the lines of his palm.

“Still there,” Wilson muttered lowly, the corner of his mouth twisting just barely as he peered up at House through the messy fringe of his hair.

“Still there,” House agreed, dipping his head. Jimmy’s fingers carded through his hair, gentle and soothing as if House were the one dying. His own heart hiccupped in his chest at that thought, as his palm slid along to curl around the side of Wilson’s chest and House pressed a kiss along that thin skin. He felt the thump of Jimmy’s heart, the hum of his pulse against the delicate skin of his lips. The fingers in his hair tightened, and the next kiss was sharper with teeth as House kissed along the slope of Wilson’s chest, nipping and sucking at his clavicle, the tendons of his neck, the line of his throat. “It’s still there,” he murmured against the sensitive spot behind Jimmy’s ear, his nose pressed to the soft hair there. Jimmy’s fingers tightened in his hair, pulling House’s mouth to Wilson’s with a breathed-out needy noise. House folded down against the younger man’s chest until he could feel Jimmy’s heart pounding against his breastbone in a thumping reminder that Wilson was still there. Still with him. And House kissed Wilson with all the passion he had trapped under his ribs since that blue-smoke atmosphere in New Orleans, licking filthily past Wilson’s teeth and nipping at his lips because who knew how much longer House had with the younger man in his bed.

His hands smoothed along Jimmy’s sides, feeling the younger man’s muscles flex under soft, warm skin. Wilson’s palms slipped up over House’s shoulders, his fingers digging down along House’s spine. The younger man huffed out a soft sound, his head tipping back to expose the long line of his throat. And how was House not expected to dip his mouth down, scraping his teeth along Jimmy’s pulse before working his way back up, leaving sucking kisses along Wilson’s skin. He nipped at the tender skin just under Jimmy’s jaw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to taunt flesh and sucking sharply. Wilson squirmed, folding a leg up to press his knee roughly into House’s side as the younger man tried to wiggle free, a whine catching high in his throat. House could feel that sound under his tongue as his mouth pursed against Jimmy’s skin and his fingers curled around the younger man’s hips, holding him down as House sucked a dark mark to the thin skin. He could practically taste Jimmy’s pulse where it thundered against House’s tongue as he held the younger man down roughly against the mattress, grinding their hips together. Wilson’s hand pushed up along the back of his scalp, fingers digging down into House’s hair and pulling as Jimmy’s jaw tipped up with a soft whine. House felt that sound, vibrating where it caught in Wilson’s throat and making his dick jump in anticipation as he let the mouthful of flesh go with a wet pop.

House traced the tip of his tongue along the swollen flesh, feeling it twitch and throb hotly. Leaning back, he let his gaze linger on bruised flesh, where his mouth had crushed capillaries and pulled blood to the surface of pale skin. It punched down into his guts, pulling at his spine sharply at the sight of that physical claim, and for not being one for childish love marks, his dick twitched wetly in his boxers. Because that hickey was a physical claim laid, as House told the world that _finally_ the younger man was _his_ and no one else’s. “Christ,” House gritted out, the word drawn long and harsh as he dipped his mouth to press a rough kiss to that mark, crushing his lips to bruised and wet skin. Wilson moaned at the pressure, squirming under him slightly as House ground their hips down together. The thin fabric of their boxers hid very little and then absolutely nothing as Jimmy’s hips rolled up against his, pressing cotton dampened with precum against House’s belly as the younger man whined. He brushed his lips along the skin-softened ridges of Jimmy’s esophagus, his mouth closing over another mouthful of flesh and sucking roughly. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, feeling the swell of his soft palate as his cheeks hollowed, suction pulling his lips in tight against Jimmy’s skin. House felt that suck down in his gums, in his teeth in a proprietorial hindbrain instinct to claim. Wilson’s body curved under him, the leg pressed against his side unfolding to slip over House’s ass as the muscles of Jimmy’s thigh flexed with something dangerously close to a moan, pulling House tight against him. His breath shook out of his chest as House leaned back, his palm skimming up along Jimmy’s side and knotting in Wilson’s hair, tugging, pulling the younger man’s throat into a taunt line of stretched tendon and curved cartilage. House could see the flutter of Jimmy’s pulse against stretched thin skin, dancing just under the darkening, wet bruises. He pulled his hand down, cupping his palm against the younger man’s neck and drawing a tender line along those marks.

As long as Jimmy’s skin still bruised, his heart still thumped.

Dark lashes fluttered open as Jimmy glanced down at him, leaving his head tipped up as House’s thumb rubbed between the two marks. He could feel the younger man swallow, the flex of muscle and skin, the squeeze of tendon. House pressed his thumb against the dark mark at the hinge of Wilson’s jaw, taking delight as Jimmy’s lashes fluttered briefly, a soft noise vibrating against House’s palm. “Do you feel better,” Wilson quipped softly, tipping his head back with a fondly exasperated huff. “Reliving your glory days as a high school Casanova.” House felt those words just as much as he heard them, rumbling softly against the curve of his fingers, the pad of his thumb. House raked his gaze down along Wilson’s supine form, taking in his chest flushed with arousal, his heaving ribs and pulled taunt abdominals, the obscene tent of Jimmy’s boxers, the wet spot at the fly. He cleared his throat, pulling his thumb down along the prettily bruised curve of Jimmy’s neck.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the Casanova,” he quipped, leaning down to trail soft kisses along the heated throb of those two love bites, slipping down further to press a kiss to the next expanse of unmarred skin. His mouth parted, lips pursing against the curve of flesh as his bottom teeth scraped over Wilson’s Adam’s apple and he found purchase on supple skin. Nails dug down into his back, pulling as House sucked another mark into skin. His soft palate throbbed in sympathy as House drew the flat of his tongue over the bruise, dipping down to close his lips over the abused flesh for just one last hard suck. He dug his elbows into the mattress on either side of Wilson’s chest, holding himself up as he looked down at the younger man. The latest love bite sloppily overlapped the original, like a washed-out corona of muted red. House internally preened at the sight of crushed capillaries and bruised skin, slick and shiny with saliva. “I’m just staking a claim. Can’t have you wandering off and finding a fourth Missus Wilson.” He pulled his teeth, his tongue gingerly along the hot skin, feeling the sullen throb against his lips. “Besides, you like it.” House accentuated his statement with a rough grind of his hips, smirking as the muscles in Jimmy’s leg tightened, tugging him closer as Wilson’s hips rolled upward in response. House licked at his lips in anticipation as he dipped his head, his mouth closing over the younger man’s skin. He felt the whined-out moan that caught under his teeth as Jimmy’s head tipped backward in supplication. House felt Jimmy’s dick jump against his groin as he sucked harder, his mouth pursing to suck a smaller, infinitely darker mark into skin.

Jimmy’s hands pulled up along his back, curving over his shoulders and squeezing as Wilson’s hips rolled upward at that pressure. The younger man whined, curving his neck in offering as House sucked the next mark into place. His palate was swollen, his lips throbbed weakly from the pressure, and his dick jumped damply in his boxers as he parted his mouth for a larger mouthful, sucking a less vibrant claim into fragile flesh. Wilson moaned softly as his fingers curled down into House’s shoulders, nails biting down along the spine of his scapulae. House groaned as his hands drifted upward to curl around Jimmy’s wrists, slipping up to fold around the younger man’s hands until his thumbs pressed to the center of Jimmy’s palms as House pressed his hands to the mattress above his head while House pulled his lips downward. He dipped his head to the base of Wilson’s neck, his tongue slipping over that divot at the hollow of his throat before his teeth caught in pulled taunt flesh as he bit down, sucked hard, desperate to leave his mark on Jimmy. Wilson’s body squirmed, his fingers curling sharply around House’s as his hips rolled up, grinding their erections together.

“As much as I’m enjoying this new oral fixation,” Jimmy gasped out, hips squirming impatiently as his leg slipped along the back of House’s thigh, muscles flexing hard and pulling him more firmly into the vee of Wilson’s legs. The younger man’s words tapered off with a low whimper as their hips caught and ground together, as Wilson rocked up into the contact. House pulled his bottom lip along that curving line of marks, feeling the delicate skin catch roughly on Jimmy’s throat where the spit was already drying. He felt the languid tug of Wilson’s hands from where he pressed them into the mattress. “I thought you were gonna fuck me,” Jimmy murmured, his tone already low and raspy in a way that made House’s dick jump in anticipation where it was trapped in his boxers.

“I always knew you were weak for my perfectly average dick,” he teased. Wilson groaned, dropping his head back, and House could just imagine the eyeroll. He shoved himself upward on his elbows and looked down at his handiwork spread across Jimmy’s skin. The flesh was mottled, a patchwork of dark, bright, and faded red that curved inward along the line of Wilson’s throat. Already the darker parts had almost blackened, bruising deeply where the vessels had burst and blood had pooled under the dermis. Just the rough approximation of the shape of his mouth stamped into skin over and over. It was such an adolescences thing, and so stupid hot, yanking at his arousal and sending it corkscrewing along his spine. House dipped his head down to brush his lips, his teeth over those love bites, breathing out against damp skin because that want hooked under his ribs and wrenched. Singing _mine, mine, mine_ in time to the throb of those marks. His hand drifted down along Wilson’s chest, his stomach, curling around the waistband of the younger man’s boxers and peeling them down. That lovely cock slapped lightly against Jimmy’s stomach, flushed and heavy, precum-slick as House’s fingers curled around it and gave a lazy stroke. Wilson’s head fell back with a soft gasp of a moan, his hips fucking up into House’s loose grip. Jimmy’s fingers twisted into the bedclothes above his head, hands still where House had left them as Wilson’s legs spread in entreaty, his hips rolling upward after House’s touch.

House’s dick throbbed in his boxers as anticipation spiraled through his bloodstream. He let go of Jimmy’s pretty cock to shove at his boxers, suddenly impatient to crush skin to skin. The cotton caught around his hips, his nails scrabbling briefly at his skin before House managed to get his boxers down around his knees. The thin fabric pulled taunt where it rested low on his thighs, elastic pinching at his skin slightly as his legs spread. House rolled his hips down, grinding his erection roughly to Wilson’s as he dropped his mouth to Jimmy’s. It couldn’t rightly be called a kiss, because it was something more like lips burst open with pressure, breath panting hotly as their skin caught, slipped, crushed together in a mess of precum and sweat. His fingers curled around Jimmy’s hip, dragging the younger man more firmly against him as Wilson’s hips rocked upward. It was an awkwardly shimmying shuffle to push their boxers down far enough to kick them away without losing any contact, but they managed in the end. And their limbs found their places on muscle memory alone, from nights spent figuring out what worked best, as Jimmy’s leg rested high against the wreck of House’s thigh and his own knees slipped open. House rocked his hips to Wilson’s, grinding filthily as he pulled his mouth along the younger man’s bruised throat.

His breath hitched at the feeling of Wilson’s fingers tightening in his hair as Jimmy pulled House’s mouth back up to his. Their lips crushed together, their tongues tangling wetly as they pressed together. House’s fingers curled around Jimmy’s hip, fingertips bearing down roughly around the bone as if desperate to leave marks there as well. Wilson made a breathy noise into the crush of their lips, his fingers curling sharply in House’s hair, twisting in the sheets restlessly as his hips ground back into the heavy press of House’s frame.

“Greg,” Jimmy panted as all the muscles in his back seemingly flexed, pulling his body to curve up against House’s. House groaned low in his chest, bearing down more firmly against the younger man, rutting their hips together impatiently. He pressed his face into the crook of Wilson’s neck, mouthing roughly up along those marks just to hear the younger man gasp, to feel his body pull taunt under House’s. His cock jumped, smearing precum against Jimmy’s groin as Wilson moaned softly in his ear, soft lips parted against the curls of cartilage as the sound caressed his sensitive skin.

“Jesus, Jimmy,” he groaned, his tone a wrecked thing as he pulled his hand down from Wilson’s hip to grip at his thigh, thumb digging down callously into the tender inside as he hiked Wilson’s leg higher along his side. The change in position was novel, turning the grind of their hips filthier as House fucked his hips down against Wilson’s, feeling like he couldn’t quite catch his breath as want cinched up tight under his ribs and seemingly crushed his lungs out of the way. Jimmy’s hand left the sheet to grab roughly at the small of his back, fingertips digging down hard into the stretch of flesh as Wilson tugged him forward with an impatient noise. His hips tipped up to meet House’s.

“Please,” Wilson gasped, fingers curling against his skin as their hips rocked minutely together.

“Gotta get the lube,” House huffed, though he couldn’t really be bothered to relinquish his grip on the younger man just then, as he pressed more firmly against Jimmy, rolling their hips together. He panted damply against Wilson’s neck, mouthing at abused flesh as Wilson’s fingers tightened against him, holding him pinned in place against Jimmy. As if House wanted to be anywhere else anyway. “Christ,” he groaned, feeling it where the sonances rattled free from the inside of his chest gutturally. House continued to lazily rut against Wilson, feeling his passion spiral, expand with each thrust of his hips. His teeth caught at Jimmy’s earlobe as his hips drove down a little harder, his fingers crushing against Wilson’s hip, fingertips digging into the soft swell of the younger man’s oblique.

Huffing in something close to amusement, Jimmy made the decision to get the lube himself and twisted under House. His frame stretched under House, dropping his hand to get his elbow up under him as Wilson’s thigh pressed against House’s hip. Jimmy’s ribs, his back curved and stretched as he pushed himself thin over the mattress, reaching for the bottle of lube on the bedside table. House followed that shift of muscle, of skin over bone dutifully. He smoothed his palm along Jimmy’s side, feeling the younger man breathe, the thump of his heartbeat rattling around his ribcage, the flex of muscle and tendon. He dipped his head, pressing sucking, open-mouthed kisses along Jimmy’s side, nipping at soft skin until the younger man huffed. An elbow rubbed against his skull in an attempt to push House away. “Are you _trying_ to distract me,” Wilson gasped out, his hand spreading on the sheets to balance himself as he stretched, his back pulling long and lean under House’s weight.

“I must not be doing a good job if you have to ask,” House mocked, pulling his teeth along the slope of Jimmy’s scapula. He rubbed his bristly cheek along Wilson’s shoulder, smearing sucking kisses over the irritated skin. The younger man huffed out a fondly exasperated sigh, dropping his head to press his face to the covers.

“Greg, if you don’t want to fuck me, can you tell me now instead of winding me up and _then_ telling me,” Wilson bit out, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.

House pulled his teeth over the vertebrae around Jimmy’s C7, following that slow curve of delicate bones with the sharp edge of enamel to try and keep his smile reigned in. Honestly, Wilson getting a little bitchy shouldn’t have been that hot, but that attitude had just enough of a needy edge to make his dick twitch with interest, dribbling precum. Just another Pavlovian response when sex with Wilson was up for grabs. He groaned softly and pressed his forehead low on Wilson’s nape, nipping against the younger man’s skin where it stretched between the younger man’s shoulders. “Don’t be stupid,” he grumped, grinding his hips down into Wilson’s where they were still twisted up below the waist. “I always wanna fuck you,” House breathed out against Jimmy’s skin.

“Then can I _please_ grab the lube,” Jimmy grumbled, turning his head slightly to almost glare over his shoulder at House. The look probably lost a little bit of its impact, because Jimmy’s visible cheek was flushed pink and his pupil was blown, the iris almost black with lust where Wilson peeked out at him from beneath messy hair. Something that was more than likely supposed to look disgruntled but came off looking entirely too fuckable. He bit back the leer as he propped himself up on his elbows, giving the younger man a little clearance to make a grab for the lube once more. House tipped his eyebrows up in amusement, watching as Wilson practically crawled across the mattress even with his lower half firmly pinned by House’s weight. And really, the younger man couldn’t have been able to stretch himself that much longer than his spine accounted for, but it sure made a pretty picture watching Jimmy squirm and twist in the bedclothes beneath him. The soft, breathy sounds Jimmy was making definitely added an attractiveness to the whole situation. House drew in a slow breath through his nose because he was about ten seconds away from fucking down into Wilson just like that, with Jimmy stretched out so prettily under him.

Wilson’s fingertips finally managed to barely brush the bottle, pressing it back just slightly from the edge of the bedside table. The younger man huffed out an annoyed sound, slumping just a little on the bedclothes before shimmying as if undoing his shoulder to reach for the bottle, managing to knock the lube onto the bed. House pressed himself against Wilson’s side, unable to keep himself from smearing kisses and stubble burn high against the stretched arch of Jimmy’s ribs. The younger man twisted again, shoving his elbows up under him as he thrust the bottle of lube into House’s chest. Jimmy’s eyes were impossibly dark, pupils blown wide under fluttering lashes. And that punched heat down into his guts, set a small fire there as he practically crawled up Jimmy, unable to keep the sharp grin from curling at his lips. Wilson’s pretty cock jumped against his stomach, dragging wetly as House dipped to bite at the younger man’s nipple.

House snicked the bottle of lube open, shifting slightly to ease the muted ache in his thigh, pushing his knee away from the younger man’s hip. He spread some of the slick along his fingers before tossing the small bottle to the floor with a soft thump. Jimmy squirmed a little as House smoothed his slick digits along the inside of Wilson’s thigh, sliding up along the dark stain of ink like a fresh bruise as the younger man’s hips shifted with a soft, impatient noise. House pressed his fingers up over a flexed sartorius, a twitching adductor muscle before pulling his fingertips along a jumping hamstring, tracing the crease where that lovely thigh became a peachy-perfect ass. His nails dragged lightly along delicate skin. Wilson’s leg curved around his ass, those lovely muscles working in tandem with the younger man’s lower abdominals, his glutes to pull Jimmy into an impatient curve, his hips pressing back as his head tipped with an exasperated huff. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” Wilson complained breathily.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the impatient one,” House tried to mock, but his attention was firmly on the bruises strewn across Jimmy’s throat. The fading sun turned the love bites the color of port spilled across canvas, a rich and dark stain on cream.

“If I die before you get your dick in me, I’ll never forgive you,” Jimmy deadpanned, his muscles flexing once more into that alluring curve as his knee slipped higher, his hips pressing back as his spine swayed. And the younger man was such a lovely example of human anatomy, even with sickness slowly stripping meat from bone. House dipped his head to pull his mouth along the ridge of Wilson’s sternum, scraping his teeth along supple skin. He felt the soft rumble of Jimmy’s moan where it caught under bone, rubbed against muscle and flesh. And honestly, how could House ever say no to fucking the younger man?

Humming, House pulled his fingertips along Jimmy’s cleft slowly, slipping down to rub an aimless circle around the furl of Wilson’s entrance, pressing inward slightly. Wilson groaned low in his throat, his hand coming up to grip at House’s hair, his fingers tangling at the back of his skull. Jimmy pulled at his handful of greying strands, and House went easily, letting himself lean forward to crush his mouth to Wilson’s as he braced a palm by the younger man’s free hand. He fucked his tongue languidly past Jimmy’s lips as he pressed two fingers past that quivering rim, pushing against the tight flex of muscle. House swallowed the sweet sound that Wilson breathed out into their kiss. He spread his digits, fucking them shallowly into Jimmy’s body. The younger man’s hips tipped down, chasing after his fingers impatiently as Wilson tightened his grip in House’s hair, smashing their mouths together roughly as Jimmy whined into the crush of their lips, teeth, and tongues. He wagered he could feel the pound of the younger man’s heart where brand-hot muscles clenched around his fingers. Groaning, House pulled his mouth down along Jimmy’s neck, feeling the jump of Wilson’s pulse against his tongue. He shallowly fucked his fingers into the tight clench of the younger man’s body, spreading his fingers as he pressed them in deeper and deeper, crooking them. House rubbed his fingers firmly against that knot of nerves, his chest resting heavily against Jimmy’s as the younger man squirmed. Wilson’s hips pressed back with a soft pant, his back swaying prettily. The younger man’s elbow dug down into the mattress, his hand curling roughly in the sheets for the leverage to push down against House’s fingers. And House would note it as many times as it needed noting, because the younger man really had been made for fucking, as his chest rolled up against House’s and his hips did an obscene little grind.

And normally two fingers were more than enough, because Jimmy reveled in that sharp burn from hurried prep, but House was of a greedy mindset right then, as he screwed a third finger up after the other two. He pressed them in deep, smoothing his thumb up down Wilson’s perineum, following the press of his fingers where they bore down heavily on Jimmy’s prostate. The younger man made a choked out, somewhat embarrassing noise as House’s thumb pressed upward, his digits separated only by fragile nerve, muscle, and skin. Wilson’s head fell back, his hips jerking downward sharply against the pressure, and House really had no choice but for his mouth to find one of those dark bruises sucked into skin. The noise tapered out into a weak groan as Jimmy’s dick jumped wetly where it was sandwiched between their bellies. His erection throbbed in sympathy as House spread his fingers, rubbing his fingertips against that clench, spreading them as he fucked them into Jimmy’s body.

“Greg,” Jimmy warned, the fingers at the back of House’s skull tightening until the grip bordered right there on _too much_. The younger man pulled, and House kissed and bit his way up Wilson’s bruised throat, humming low in his chest.

“Jimmy,” he murmured against the exposed line of Wilson’s throat. House pulled his fingers free from the clench of Jimmy’s muscles, spreading them on the mattress between them. He shuffled forward just enough to press against the curve of Wilson’s body, searching for the sweet spot with his useless excuse for a thigh as his legs spread. He curled his fingers around the base of his dick, squeezing roughly because he might never forgive that stupid organ if he came before being buried balls deep in the younger man’s heat. Precum dribble from his slit, drops sliding down along his length. He stroked himself roughly, sliding the tip along Wilson’s cleft as he smeared residual lube and precum along his dick, pressing the glans up against Jimmy’s entrance. His hips lazily fucked forward, just teasing at breaching the younger man, reveling in the feeling of that muscle fluttering against his tip. But again, Wilson had been made for fucking, and his hips tipped backward heavily. The sway of his back, the flex of his muscles all had Wilson pushing down on House’s length so quickly, so _perfectly_ that House thought for a startingly second he might actually cum from that alone. He groaned, crushing his mouth to that first mark, his nose pressing along the hinge of Jimmy’s jaw as he bottomed out and pleasure bloomed hot and sharp in his guts.

His lungs felt just as useless as his thigh because House _couldn’t_ _fucking breathe_ as he crushed his mouth to Jimmy’s throat, feeling his length flex in that vise-like grip of Jimmy’s muscles. And that was how he was going to die, wasn’t it, because Jimmy’s hips were rolling down impatiently. That slow, grinding roll of Wilson’s hips shut down all activity in his forebrain, leaving them safely in the proverbial hands of his hindbrain instincts to fuck Jimmy into the mattress. House dug his fingers roughly into the sheets, into Jimmy’s thigh as he drove his hips forward. His teeth closed haphazardly over a mark, feeling, _tasting_ the throb of Wilson’s pulse under his tongue as he sucked. Jimmy’s fingers abandoned their grip on his hair, his nails and fingertips digging down between House’s shoulder blades and hooking as the younger man whined. That bright lick of pain along his spine, that sound rattling down into the delicate bones of his ear drove House’s hips forward harder. And already his leg was starting to complain through the hazy edges of a scotch and cannabis softened reality, but House just spread his legs a little more, pressing more firmly against Jimmy and fully embracing the idea of just fucking through the pain.

He bit roughly at Wilson’s throat as House rolled his hips forward, driving his dick into that obscenely tight clench of Jimmy’s body as deeply as he could. He slid his hand up along Wilson’s hip, his fingers digging hard into that perfect ass as House yanked the younger man closer. Jimmy’s back swayed, his hips grinding down into House’s thrust, and House groaned against his bruised skin. Because Jimmy’s back pulling forward like that, pressing his chest tight against House’s, opened all those tight muscles in the best possible way, letting House fuck hard and deep into the younger man. His fingers curled hard against Jimmy’s hip, pulling impatiently as he balanced his weight better against the arm he had braced against the mattress. And _Christ_ , Jimmy’s hips ground down like he was trying to merge their fucking bodies together, all those scalding hot muscles cinching up and milking his length like Jimmy had been made for him. His hips jerked forward into that tight clench with a mindless groan, because the world just constricted to the feeling, the sound of the younger man under him. To the almost unbearable _need_ to cum as he fucked into Jimmy, spurred on by dull nails in his back and soft moans in his ear.

At some point, it become some sort of reminder. That hearts still beat, and blood still pumped. That skin still bruised, and lungs still held breath. Something visceral and vivacious and _alive_ as Jimmy’s nails dug down into that place between his shoulder blades, his spine swaying while his hips pressed downward as House drove his hips forward roughly. His orgasm was already cinching up tight along his spine, barbing down around his ribs as House fucked harder into the younger man, crushing softly broken sounds out of Jimmy’s chest. Wilson pulled his hand along House’s back, nails racking lines into flesh before he managed to wedge his hand between the crush of their bodies and grip his cock. Jimmy stroked himself in time with House’s thrusts, and that dual pleasure had Wilson’s muscles all cinching up tight. Hot breath whispered over the whorls of House’s ear; just little whimpers of panted-out pleasure that made House shift his balance to drive his hips into the younger man harder. A little leg pain was nothing if Jimmy kept making noises like that. He would willingly fuck the younger man until his heart _exploded_ if Jimmy just kept panting, whimpering, moaning against the sensitive skin of his ear.

Wilson’s length jumped between them, where it was crushed against House’s belly and the younger man’s grip. Jimmy’s hips fucked upward with a whine as all his muscles seemingly pulled up tight. The suddenness of it knocked House’s rhythm off because that perfect ass was clamping against his dick as Jimmy’s spend smeared against his stomach. His hips jerked, grinding hard against Wilson’s ass as his dick flexed against the sharp clench of muscle. Each stroke of Wilson’s palm along his length cinched those muscles up tighter against House’s dick, and his hips rocked up into it as he bit roughly at Jimmy’s throat, moaning softly. The younger man’s chest pressed up against his, his hips grinding down obscenely. There was the lewd slide of seminal fluid along House’s stomach as Wilson’s back swayed further. And really, he was _only_ a red-blooded man, and there was only so much of _that_ he could take before his hips were fucking roughly into the clench of Wilson’s body, suddenly desperate to cum. Jimmy’s mouth pressed against his collarbone, lips and teeth crushed open as damp breath panted hotly against his skin while Wilson stripped his hand up along his cock. The younger man’s pleasure must have been a sharply edged thing, because his muscles rippled, quivered, clenched restlessly around House’s dick. That sensation hooked at his orgasm, milking it sharply along his spine and wadding it in his hips, his lower belly as that hindbrain instinct drove his hips forward. His teeth closed over a bruise, nearly tasting the sound when Jimmy moaned, his hips grinding down filthily.

With a guttural groan, House came, grinding his hips down against Jimmy. Those tight muscles clenched around his jerking length as he spilled into that hot clench. He tucked his face into the crook of Wilson’s neck, his hips jumping forward sharply, unevenly as his fingers slipped down to dig into Jimmy’s thigh, pulling the younger man more firmly against him. He groaned again, deep and low in his chest, a broken sound as his hips fucked forward, chasing that release. And while House never shied away from the sharp pleasure-pain of overstimulation that came with fucking well past his own orgasm, he certainly never just _leaned_ into it wholeheartedly. Not like Jimmy, whose hips were grinding back to meet each of his erratic thrusts, his muscles cinching up against House’s dick and tightening like constrictor coils as if to milk the last of his orgasm from the marrows of his bones. House’s elbow shook a little where it bore his weight, and he let himself collapse slightly, his chest pressing sweatily to Wilson’s as he tried to catch his breath. The pressure against his breastbone made House acutely aware of his heart pounding in his chest, as if desperately to break through bone and find itself a new home underneath Jimmy’s ribs. The incredulous thought that he might just let the damnable organ _go_ filtered through the hazy, fucked-out landscape of his thoughts as House pressed his nose to the hollow of Wilson’s throat. His tongue slid up over the skin there, tasting the salt sharp tang of Jimmy’s sweat as he breathed against the younger man’s flesh.

A palm curved against his skull, fingers burying in his hair as Wilson collapsed against the mattress. House brought his hand up to press against the side of the younger man’s chest, feeling where his heart thumped steadily in its cancer-ridden prison of bone and muscle. Blinking that thought away, House pulled his teeth along the mark at the hollow of Jimmy’s throat, giving it a lazy suck before planting kisses along the side of Wilson’s neck. He flopped onto his back with a huff, cheeks puffing as he tipped his head back against the mattress. And honestly, he was closer to the door, so he should probably be the one to go get a washrag, to clean them up, but he just slumped further into the mussed bedclothes. With limited time left and a hot, younger man in his bed, House really couldn’t be bothered to give a damn about something as trivial as tacky seminal fluids. Especially as Jimmy’s fingers brushed through his hair, curled lightly against his shoulder in an entreaty for something softer. And that request was impossible to ignore, as he shuffled his way up the bed until he was tucked in under Wilson’s arm, his head tipped back against the sharp ridge of Jimmy’s shoulder. House could feel the hard press of the younger man’s ribs lifting with each slowing inhale as Wilson curled in closer around him. The hazy, delightful feeling steeped into his bones, hollowing him out as surely as it weighted him like some overgrown housecat lounging in the sun. His eyes drifted closed as House drew in a slow breath, not even trying to fight the soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

If heaven truly was a place on earth, it was nestled up there in the feral paradise of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Tucked in against the rocky shore of Lake Superior. Wrapped in the soft, warm arms of one James Wilson. 

“I’ll miss this,” Wilson breathed out just behind his ear, coaxing House’s eyes open once more. Jimmy’s voice was soft and uneven with tears as he pulled his fingers through House’s chest hair, his fingertips ghosting along House’s skin before still as Wilson sighed. He felt the younger man’s arms tighten marginally where they were draped over his shoulders before his nails resumed their gentle caress along House’s skin. The touch was light enough that it raised goosebumps along his forearms, sent a shiver scattering down House’s spine. He tipped his head back against Wilson’s shoulder, more than content to let the aimless exploration continue as his eyes drifted closed once more.

“You’re just mad because you can’t grow any,” he teased lightly, knowing good and well that Jimmy meant _that_. The soft afterglow, with their bodies still a tangle of seemingly boneless limbs and their lungs falling into the same rhythm as the pound of their pulses slowed.

The younger man hummed softly, not even bothering to tease him back. House made the decision right then to not turn around anytime soon, suddenly terrified of what he’d see. Because as it was, he was barely keeping it together and if he caught sight of Wilson crying, he was pretty certain that he’d splinter into shards of himself. Wilson pressed his cheek to House’s hair as he twisted just a little, tossing his leg up over House’s stomach, his calf curving against House’s hip. It was instinct really for his fingers to spread over the younger man’s thigh, to rub his thumb along that barely visibly edge of dark red ink soaked into pale skin.

“It’s good, isn’t it,” House finally said. “This.”

Jimmy dipped his head, and he could feel the hint of Wilson’s smile as their ears, their cheeks pressed together. “I don’t know about _good_ ,” he lilted softly before dipping his head to press a kiss to the line of House’s throat with a thoughtful hum. “That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.”

Grumbling, House rolled over to press Wilson against the messed-up bedcovers, doing his best to glare at the younger man but the sight of those bruise-dark marks trailing down Jimmy’s throat froze him in place. “You’re a bastard,” he breathed out, cupping a palm around that curving line of love bites, pressing his thumb into the one just under Wilson’s jaw. The younger man huffed out a breath of a laugh, his gaze turning dark and warm as he tipped his head up, pushing his fingers through House’s hair and pulling until their lips brushed. Their kisses were languid things, like they had all the time in the world, because as far as House was concerned, he was beginning to think that the world began and ended with Jimmy.

And he was perfectly fine living his days with that mentality, with the bone-deep understanding that Wilson was the _only_ thing that truly mattered. House was beyond content that they lounge in bed until Jimmy decided to get up and make coffee, and that their meals were haphazard things born of invention rather than recipe, and that they spent their evenings drinking or smoking or sometimes both a little too much. It was almost startling to think that House could almost certainly die happy just the way they were, tucked away into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. 

Dinner had been some sort of soup, that had admittedly been more like House just cleaning out the fridge and dumping it all in a Dutch oven. It had been relatively edible, but Wilson had eaten two bowls of it, which House was pretty sure was the most the younger man had eaten since South Carolina. And far be it for him to look that gift horse in the mouth. He dropped down on the sofa, already pulling the bottle of scotch over to the table’s edge. The cork squeaked as he wiggled it free, amber liquor sloshing into their glasses as House poured. Jimmy stood just beyond the coffee table, his hands tucked into his pockets as he looked out the windows, his attention lost somewhere out over the lake. House pushed the heavy tumbler over, the rasp of glass on wood pulling Wilson’s thoughts back to present. The younger man clicked his glass to House’s before that first sip, but he remained standing with something clearly on his mind. And House tried not to be too apprehensive about it, but since the whole cancer thing, Jimmy had seemingly taken to a crippling sort of bluntness with his heavier words. So, House waited, sipping his scotch and watching the younger man overthink, as Jimmy’s head tipped to the side slightly in contemplation, accentuating the curve of his throat. And he found himself eying the faded, yellowing bruises along Jimmy’s throat with a sudden desire to suck at those love marks sharply, heavily until they bloomed into existence once more.

“What if we go outside?”

House blinked out of those thoughts, tipping his head up slightly as he stared curiously at the younger man. Wilson cradled his tumbler of scotch to his chest while he looked at the ground, decidedly not meeting his gaze. “It’s dark out.”

“Star gazing or whatever,” Jimmy finally said, giving a shallow roll of his shoulders. “We could sit on the swing out there and just appreciate it.” He lifted his gaze as he dumped the rest of the drink past his teeth, leaving that heavy tumbler on the coffee table.

“That sounds really romantic,” he snarked, not entirely in the mood to sit out on the porch as the temperature dropped. But Wilson had already made the decision for them apparently because he was gathering up the heavy quilt folded over the back of the armchair and heading for the backdoor. House scoffed out a soft noise, but he followed the younger man, snagging up the bottle of scotch as he went because if he was going to sit out in the cold, there had better be decent alcohol. And by the time he got out the door, Wilson was already folded into the crook of the swing, the quilt haphazardly thrown over the wicker back. Jimmy was sprawled there, halfway leaning back with a leg drawn up against the back of the seat as he waited for House to crawl in against him. He scoffed again but folded himself down against the younger man, pressing his back against Wilson’s chest as he dragged his bum leg up in the oversized seat with them and leaned back into the younger man more fully.

Wilson pulled the quilt over them as House wrenched the cork free from the bottle. The younger man wound an arm around his belly, hooked his chin over House’s shoulder as they passed the bottle between them for that first drink outside to warm the chill of autumn from their bones. The scotch was right there at rough, smoky and full-bodied as it burned its way into his guts, lit a fire there. House tipped his head back against Jimmy’s shoulder, feeling his breath catch roughly under his ribs because holy fuck that was a _lot_ of stars. A blue million brilliant pinpricks in an inky black sky. And House had seen stars before, in at least two hemispheres thanks to being a military brat, but _that_ was something special. Because he’d spent the last thirty or so years living in a cramped city where light pollution blotted out the night sky, and admittedly he’d forgotten there was so many of them. But up there in the Upper Peninsula, right there at the edge of Lake Superior, the sky stretched on forever, like miles of black velvet with holes punched into it like lacework.

House passed the bottle back to Jimmy as he leaned into the younger man, rolling the scotch around in his mouth before swallowing and exhaling those rough fumes. Those fumes plumed into the cool night air before his lips, just a little cloud of fog of lung-warmed breath. “Well, that is something,” he breathed out, tone almost reverent as he felt Wilson shift to take a slug of scotch before Jimmy stretched an arm up, finger extended to trace between stars where meteors bolted almost lazily through the dark sky. Those burning hunks of space trash sparked through the sky, hurtling toward the horizon, were brilliant and awe-inspiring as the meteors took over that blackness.

“I think that’s the Perseids,” Wilson murmured in his ear, his tone soft and husky. “Coming from Perseus the Hero,” Jimmy continued, pulling his finger over to a vague cluster of starlight.

“Boy Scout,” he tried to grumble as he accepted the scotch back, taking a long pull on the bottle, but it was a little difficult with Jimmy’s voice in his ear, tone pitched low and husky, his words hot against House’s skin. Wilson chuckled softly, tipping his head in to kiss lightly at House’s throat before snagging the bottle back.

“Gets your panties wet, I know,” the younger man quipped before pulling back to take another sip and pass the bottle back over.

House just hummed noncommittally as he took another sip of scotch, because he always did like it when Jimmy offered up random bits of knowledge. He tipped his head back against Wilson’s shoulder, holding the bottle cradled against his chest. “What else is up there.”

The younger man folded around him, wrapping an arm more firmly around House’s waist as Wilson pressed closer, hooking his chin over House’s shoulder as he hummed in thought. Their cheeks pressed together as Jimmy tipped his head up, regarding the night sky carefully. The silence fell over them, broken only by the muted lap of waves on a jasper and slag coast. Wilson lifted his hand once more. “That, I’m pretty sure, is Ursa Major.” His finger pulled along the vague backbone of the supposed bear, punched into the dark sky. “So, that would be the Big Dipper. And then that’d be Ursa Minor.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes as he took another slug of scotch, because that myth was ridiculous. House was pretty sure that all the fucked up sexual goings-on in Mount Olympus was just to wave off the explicit things that the ancient Greeks tried out. Like telling a story about a god fucking a young queen as a bull condoned all the things those dirty old men had been getting up to. “Zeus was such a horndog,” House scoffed, leaning back into Jimmy’s embrace. “Just _had_ to stick his dick in everything.” Which earned him a breathy laugh from the younger man as Wilson resting his skull lightly against House’s.

“Oh, enlighten me, please.”

“Same old bullshit when it comes to those ancient gods.” House took a long pull on the bottle before cradling it against his chest as he stared up at those stars, swallowing roughly. “Zeus sees this maiden, nymph, whatever. Has to have her. So, he finally gets to dick down, knocks this girl up, and Hera absolutely loses her shit.”

“As she should,” Jimmy quipped, snagging the bottle for a drink, like he wasn’t some sort of serial cheater. House snorted.

“Pot. Kettle,” he wheedled, twisting to jab his finger into Wilson’s ribs roughly to drive home the point that Wilson had always had a bit of a problem keeping his dick tucked away. And he told himself it was easier to share the bottle like that, with Jimmy’s leg tucked in behind his back and thrown carefully over his lap, his shoulder pressing into the younger man’s chest. “Anyway,” he drawled, taking back the bottle for a long, burning slug. “To save his girl and their kid, Zeus turns them into bears and flings them into the sky.” He took another drink before making to pass the bottle back over to Wilson only to stop, looking at the younger man intently. Jimmy’s fingers around the bottle’s neck, and he tried to tug it free from House’s grip, not that House let him.

“What,” Wilson finally huffed out, forehead furrowing a little in exasperation as he wilted slightly under House’s gaze.

“Actually, are you sure you’re not related to Zeus, Jupiter, whatever you wanna call him. Always chasing after things to stick your dick in,” House quipped, letting the edges of his mouth smooth out into a teasing grin. “Might be an ancestral trait.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes as he pinched at the tender underside of his arm before he finally pulled the bottle free. “I can say, with one hundred percent certainty, that I would never seduce someone as a swan.” Twisting had been a good decision, because he could just make out the younger man with the help of the soft, muted light over the stove spilling out of the window. And Jimmy’s smile was fond, despite that eyeroll, as he pressed the rim of the bottle to his lips, tipping his head up to take a sip. House eyed the long line of the younger man’s throat. He leaned forward to pull his teeth along that sensitive column of flesh and blood, feeling it flex as Jimmy swallowed. House tipped forward to press firmer kisses along Jimmy’s throat, twisting a bit to push his fingers through Wilson’s hair. Wilson grumbled out a soft noise as House pressed closer, grazing his teeth along the thrum of Wilson’s pulse. The younger man dropped the bottle to his lap, humming softly as one of his hands spreading along the back of House’s skull. Jimmy’s fingers knotted in his shirt and pulled him closer as House kissed up along the line of Wilson’s throat, heading for his mouth. Their teeth clicked softly as their lips pressed together, mouths bursting open with long simmering arousal and heady alcohol. Their tongues tangled wetly as House crushed against Wilson’s lap. And somehow, that scotch tasted better when he was licking the remnants of it from Jimmy’s mouth.

House tightened his fingers in Wilson’s hair, pulling at the younger man until Jimmy was curved over him as he leaned back. If it was uncomfortable, Wilson didn’t say anything. Just allowed himself to be pulled into place, like he’d willingly snap his fucking spine just to keep kissing House. And honestly, how was House supposed to not clutch at Wilson’s shirt, grabbing at him and pulling the younger man impossibly closer so that he could lick more firmly into Jimmy’s mouth. Wilson groaned into the kiss, leaning forward and pulling his hand along House’s hip, fingers spreading and clutching. House twisted a bit more, curling his fingers around the back of the younger man’s neck, tipping his head up slightly to deepen the kiss. Which was about the time he heard the bottle drop, the thick glass hitting the porch with a muffled thump. And for what it was worth, House was all for continuing to make out, but Wilson pulled back, sucking in his first non-House contaminated breath in the last handful of minutes, blinking owlishly as he tried to figure out what had happened.

“Fuck,” Wilson rasped out, pulling the leg from House’s lap to try and twist to see where the bottle had gone. Rubbing a hand roughly over his face, House tipped his head back against the swing, pulling the quilt up over his shoulder. “Fuck,” Jimmy repeated in a softer voice, knocking the swing back as he twisted, presumably reaching for the bottle and kicking it further away. He heard it knock into the side of the house and rolled his eyes. Finally, House just dug his fingers down into Wilson’s hair, yanking until the younger man straightened with a faintly amused sound. He pulled Jimmy closer. Their mouths crushed together, and it was a bit of an awkward shuffle, pulling at Jimmy until the ex-oncologist was pressing him back into the swing’s seat. A thigh wedged up into the vee of his legs, and House’s lungs wheezed out a punched-out noise of pleasure as his hips jerked up against that long line of bone and muscle. His fingers knotted in Wilson’s hair, pulling the younger man’s mouth closer as House licked up past his teeth. House pulled at those dark strands, his fingers knotting firmly in Wilson’s hair. Jimmy groaned into the kiss, pushing closer and kissing him with a sharper intent. The swing moved slightly as the younger man crowded up against him, grinding their hips together. Not that House really noticed the sway as he reached down, curling his fingers into Jimmy’s belt loops to try and pull Wilson closer.

Wilson’s mouth moved hotly along his jaw, nipping and sucking as he went. House huffed out a low moan, his fingers twining into the younger man’s hair as his head tipped backward because _Jesus_ that was good. He tugged at those dark strands, pulling Jimmy closer. Wilson hummed against his skin, teeth scraping as Jimmy’s hot mouth bit at the hinge of his jaw. And House would gladly spend the rest of his days pinned under Wilson’s weight, as he groaned softly as Jimmy started biting lightly at his neck, leaving a sucked-wet line along his throat that the autumn air cooled. House squirmed, gasping as his fingers tightened in Wilson’s hair. House tried to tip his head back impossibly, trying to offer up more of his throat with a soft noise. His fingers curled tighter in Jimmy’s hair, his hips rolling up into that firm weight as Wilson’s mouth pulled slowly along his throat. He’d swear that man was a god with that mouth as teeth scraped along his pulse in the best possible way.

The younger man’s weight suddenly disappeared, followed by a muffled thump, because apparently the swing had been knocking more than he had thought. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, what with all his blood seemingly have pulled south to fill his dick. Huffing out a sigh, House pressed his elbows up behind him and shoved himself upward to peer down at the younger man. “Alright?”

Wilson grunted as he slumped back on the deck with his eyes closed, his breath wheezing out in something that was probably an affirmative sound as his lashes fluttered open. “Holy fuck,” Jimmy breathed out in awe, his head tipping back more firmly, and House twisted to look upward, intrigued. House breathed out slowly as bright green wove its way through the stars lazily, sparks of pinks and purples setting fire to the sky as the aroura borealis lit up the night. The northern lights glimmered and danced along between the constellations, burning in a twisting line of brilliant flashes of color through that inky black immensity, and maybe he’d been wrong before. The awe-inspiring glory of nature wasn’t down in Tennessee, but apparently tucked into the wilderness of the Upper Peninsula of fucking _Michigan_ , of all places. Because for it just being charged solar particles sparking atoms of gas _that_ was pretty fucking incredible.

The shadows beneath the swing broke apart as Wilson pulled himself to his knees, the bottle thumping down softly against the swing. Jimmy pressed his cheek against the heavy glass as he leaned forward to rest his elbows along the edge of the seat, his smile pulling lazily at the edges of his mouth. “Do you want to finish this in bed,” the younger man asked softly, the hard edges of his words softened with alcohol. And that was how House wanted to remember the younger man, as that easy confidence hooked under House’s ribs and pulled roughly. Because Wilson’s features had softened at the edges, his lashes lowered in an unnecessary ploy of seduction because House was more than willing to follow Jimmy to bed, no alcohol or heavy-lidded looks needed. The muted light spilling out of the kitchen window was warm where it softened Jimmy, highlighting the flush of too much alcohol on a relatively empty stomach across his cheeks and turning his gaze into something dark and sticky. His lips were kiss-swollen from House’s mouth, from his teeth. House bit back a groan, because he couldn’t really say no to Jimmy regardless, but he _definitely_ couldn’t say no when the younger man looked like that.

“The bottle or you,” House leered at the ex-oncologist, shoving his arms straight behind him to push himself into a seated position. His jeans tightened uncomfortably, but that pressure sparked a languid burn of pleasure low in his belly. And to his credit, Jimmy just hummed noncommittally as he got to his feet, but House felt that punch down into him like a promise that had him scrambling to his feet.

And House was _more_ than content to spend the rest of his days in bed with Wilson, pinned beneath the younger man’s weight and their skins stuck together with sweat and cum and lube. But it was more than that, because it was _easy_ being tucked away into their little lakeside paradise. Regardless of their bad days, when their bodies betrayed them, because that time spent with the younger man was everything. Days spent with lingering kisses and sure touches, like one another was all they’d ever needed. After all, all he’d ever needed was Jimmy. The younger man was all he’d ever wanted, and finally, _finally_ , House had him.

“Isn’t this boring for you,” Wilson asked one day seemingly out of the blue, on a Saturday House was pretty sure but time had become a fluid, unimportant thing. “Just sitting here. Watching me die.”

It took him aback, and admittedly, House was grateful his back was to the younger man, because he was pretty sure his expression had twisted sourly to something in between a scowl and a grimace. He kept his attention on the porkchops, turning them carefully in the cast iron skillet. And honestly, House had been thinking that maybe they’d get a cat, like Sara, and he’d been trying to find a whole workaround for the _dying_ part of them being out there in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

“Greg,” the younger man prompted after a moment, his tone soft and unsure.

“What’d you do with Sara,” he asked instead, focusing overly hard on the pork.

When his question was met with silence, he glanced over his shoulder and was treated with Wilson’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion; his mouth twisted like he was trying to connect the dots that House was sure didn’t actually connect.

“I uh, I gave her to Nora.” Wilson’s expression smoothed marginally, a small smile surfacing there at the corners of his lips as he watched House at the stove.

“What,” House scoffed out, feeling defensive, like Wilson was seeing things he wasn’t supposed to.

“You like it.” Wilson gestured loosely as his smile bloomed across his face, soft and fond. “This.”

He made a noncommittal noise low in his throat, spooning some of the butter sauce over the slabs of meat. Because honestly, _honestly_ , Wilson had been anything but boring the entire time he’d known the younger man. From a broken mirror and a screaming match to throwing his life away on principle alone, House couldn’t think of a single moment where Wilson had been something truly straightforward and boring. Figuring the other man out had always felt a bit like working a fucking Rubik’s cube where somehow, he’d always managed to not get a twist right, leaving a few blocks of nonuniform color to break up the monotony of the cube’s faces.

Jimmy’s arms came around him, low on his waist as Wilson’s jaw hooked over his shoulder. And House hadn’t heard him move, lost in his thoughts, the touch bringing him back to present. The meat probably needed to be taken up, and he hadn’t even thought about sides even though lunch was half-done as it was. Potatoes or something starchy, he thought. Maybe bread.

“I think we should leave it for dinner,” Wilson said softly, pressing a kiss to the line of his throat like he could read House’s thoughts. “I’m not hungry right now anyway.”

House scoffed, because of course Wilson wasn’t hungry. The younger man had been making himself eat for House’s sake since they’d left Kentucky he thought bitterly. But far be it for him to kick up a fuss as Jimmy plied him with soft kisses and softer touches. So, House let Wilson take him somewhere more comfortable. Wilson folded down into the corner of the couch’s arm, pulling House down between his legs as his outside thigh swung out, bouncing briefly. And honestly, House was more than willing to let the younger man curl around him on that oversized sofa. And really, what did they need a cat for, House wondered as Jimmy rubbed the underside of his jaw across House’s shoulder with a soft noise that was dangerously close to a purr.

“It’s not boring,” he finally said, with his head tipped back against Wilson’s shoulder as the younger man stuck to him like a limpet to stone, watching sunshine push languidly across the beams of the living room ceiling. House let himself slump into Jimmy’s embrace, tentatively bringing a hand up to spread over where the younger man’s hands knotted together low on his waist. Wilson pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, and House could feel his smile where it curved against House’s skin.

“Oh, that makes me feel better,” Wilson quipped playfully, biting softly at House’s shoulder. “It’s not terrible, I _guess_ ,” Jimmy mocked in a vague approximation of House’s voice. House scoffed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into Wilson’s chest.

“When have you _ever_ been boring,” he grumbled softly, glancing down as Jimmy laced their fingers together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re kidding,” the younger man deadpanned, tilting forward to press his nose behind House’s ear. “I’m a middle-aged white man. I feel like that’s kind of the epitome of boring.” Wilson huffed a laugh against his hair. “And if you take _that_ away, I’m still just an upper middle-class Jew who grew up in an expensive neighborhood in the Northeast, going to private schools and playing snobby sports. The only thing that would have made me more boring would have been if I’d gone into accounting like my father wanted, instead of practicing medicine.”

And while none of what Wilson had said was incorrect, House still rolled his eyes, because it was more like some sort of gloss of a successful yet boring life. It completely overlooked all the interesting bits that Jimmy hid away. “Are you fishing for an itemized list?”

Wilson pinched lightly at the tender underside of his arm. “If you give me an itemized list, I might die of shock, here and now.”

“I would settle for something more boring than you suddenly dying.” And when he said it aloud, it admittedly sounded a bit like House was more than willing to compliment Jimmy in exchange for sexual favors. Which, not that House was _opposed_ to that kind of thing, but he didn’t exactly need to woo the younger man to get into Jimmy’s pants.

Teeth pulled along the crook of his neck as the younger man hummed softly. “I might be able to think of something.” A brief pause. “If you _really_ impress me.”

Rolling his eyes, House slumped further into Wilson’s embrace. “I’m not detailing your accolades for you,” he grumbled softly.

“If you can name five things, I’ll be suitably impressed.”

“Why Jimmy, what low standards you have,” House mockingly lilted, already deciding that he would pick memories instead of things, because offering up memories would be far less telling than listing all the things that House found _not_ boring about the younger man. He was pretty certain that telling Wilson that House found the way he fucking _breathed_ interesting would say a _lot_ about himself. Not to mention it’d take less time to list memories as well. He didn’t even have to glance behind him to know that Wilson had opened his mouth to say something, so House cut him off. “So, first things first. You started a _bar fight_ all because some guy played a song on repeat. A _song_.”

“Wait a minute, I’d just found out I was getting _divorced_. And there are so many better Billy Joel songs!”

“Not important,” House spoke over him. “What about the time you threw a bottle of scotch through a stained-glass window. Which should be bad enough, but at my dad’s _funeral_. Shame on you, Jimmy,” he teased softly.

“He wasn’t your dad,” Jimmy complained, as if that explained his actions.

“I _thought_ he was my dad,” House quipped, wallowing back against the younger man’s chest.

“No, you didn’t,” Wilson huffed out, eyeroll implied as his tone took on an edge of exasperation even as he hooked his chin over House’s shoulder and pressed closer.

“Not to mention,” he continued as if Jimmy hadn’t spoken, “there was that time you sawed halfway through my fucking _cane_.” House twisted to pinch at Wilson’s thigh sharply. “I’m a _cripple,_ Jimmy,” he mockingly pouted.

“You started it!”

“What about the time you proposed just to keep me out of Nora’s pants?”

“You just liked her because _I_ liked her!”

House scoffed. “Plus! There was that time you stole my chicken!”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first!”

“It was cheating,” House grumbled, pinching Wilson’s thigh again. “See? Not boring. You’re a bastard wrapped up in a pretty package.”

Wilson made a soft, amused noise just over his shoulder. House twisted around to look at the younger man, trying not to feel his heart swell with affection at the small, fond smile leveled in his direction. Jimmy fluttered his eyelashes at House playfully. “You think I’m pretty?”

He scoffed again, gritting his teeth and looking away, because while it wasn’t the first time he’d told the younger man he was pretty, it felt different saying it right then. Heavier somehow. “You _would_ take that away from what I'm saying.”

Jimmy’s arm draped over House’s shoulder, pulling him in tighter against Wilson’s chest. One of his hands slipped up House’s neck, palm curving along his jaw to pull House’s attention back to the younger man. “I’m _choosing_ to take away that you think I'm pretty from what you said,” Wilson murmured, leaning in and brushing his lips over House’s.

“You should, because that’s five,” he breathed out, craning his neck to chase after that soft mouth.

“I thought you weren’t counting,” Jimmy murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against House’s once more. House let himself sink into those soft kisses, pushing his fingers up through Wilson’s dark hair and pulling gently. Awkward angle be damned, he needed the younger man closer. “I’m suitably impressed,” Wilson breathed out against House’s mouth, rubbing his thumb lightly against the slope of his cheek. “We’ll have to take this to the bedroom for your non-boring thing though.” The younger man slipped out from behind House with a coy smile, walking backward toward the bedroom with a flirty smirk like the tease that he was before turning around to show off hips with _way_ too much sway.

Groaning, House shoved himself off that oversized sofa, because how was he supposed to _not_ follow Jimmy to the bedroom. Fuck, if asked, House would have followed the younger man to the ends of the earth. Wherever Jimmy asked. Even without the promise of sex, which was telling in its own right.

House limped toward the bedroom, anticipation curling low and hot in his stomach. He paused just on the other side of the mostly closed bedroom door, trying to settle the pound of his heart. His hand spread on the door, pressing it in as he stepped through the doorway. It came as little surprise when the younger man crowded him back up against the door with a rough kiss, sharp and biting, _impatient_. And Jimmy’s hips rolling and grinding up against his while kissing him like _that_ was a bit like going from zero to sixty in less than two seconds. Just a gut-deep punch of anticipation and thrill, adrenaline pumping sharply through his veins. And maybe Jimmy really _had_ sold part of his soul to some ancient sexual being because only Wilson could get him that hard that fast. He dug his fingers into the swell of the younger man’s ass, pulling him closer as House’s fingers slipped up through dark hair, doing his best to kiss back. Wilson palmed his erection through his jeans as his tongue bullied its way past House’s lips. And House groaned lowly into that feral kiss as Wilson’s deft fingers unworked the button of his fly, putting teasing pressure on his cock just under his zipper. With a small, fond smile, Jimmy stepped back and sunk to his knees. And House _really_ didn’t want to think of the action as graceful, because it stirred up a white-hot ache of want in his guts, but there he was thinking it all the same. Honestly, Wilson had no _right_ looking that good on his knees.

“How’s your leg,” the younger man asked, tipping his head back, regarding House from beneath his lashes. And honestly, what the fuck did Wilson expect him to say? Because House would suffer a fair amount of pain to have his dick sucked, just like any other red-blooded male. That being a known standard, House would rather _die_ than tell Jimmy to stop.

“Leg’s fine, Jimmy,” he breathed, swallowing roughly as his head thumped back against the door and he let it hold him up, clutching hard at the doorknob. House was pretty sure that if he actually watched Wilson swallow him down, it’d be over way too soon. Way sooner than he wanted. But Wilson seemingly had other ideas, as Jimmy nipped sharply at the soft swell of his underbelly, pulling House’s attention. And fuck, the sight of the younger man on his knees _definitely_ made his dick jump in interest against the fly of his jeans, as Wilson pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss right above the waistband of that worn denim. House’s fingers carded through Jimmy’s dark hair, palm cupping behind Wilson’s ear as he sucked in a sharp, grounding breath. Jimmy’s gaze jumped up at the touch, impossibly dark and heated in a way that managed to make House even harder than before.

Wilson hummed softly, finally taking hold of the zipper and pulling it to the end of its track. House winced as Jimmy tugged his jeans and boxers down, a quick and smooth motion. And it _was_ a good pain day, but just the _sight_ of it, of the skin puckered and ribbed with thick scar tissue, hurt. Like walking around with a physical reminder of not only Stacy’s betrayal, but also his own stupidity. Wilson’s hand slipped along the outside of his wreck of a thigh, yanking House’s attention firmly to the thumb pulling slowly along scars where staples had held his flesh together. Jimmy had _always_ touched his leg with something like reverence, with gentle acceptance. Looked at it with a doctor’s clinical eye. And while he could admit that people didn’t generally look at his thigh with disgust or revulsion, there was almost always a twinge of morbid curiosity, of muted horror as their imaginations offered up impossible hurts. Wilson’s other hand curled hotly around the ditch of his knee as the younger man shifted at his feet, effectively pulling his focus to Jimmy. House watched with rapt attention as Wilson’s tongue slipped along the seam of his lips.

“Yeah,” Jimmy breathed out, his tone lilting upward questioningly, even though House wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to answer. And honestly, Wilson probably wasn’t even looking for an answer, as he leaned forward. Jimmy squeezed at the back of his knee, palm sliding up along the back of House’s thigh to curl around his hip, pressing House back against the door as he exhaled a sigh. The flare of his breath was hot on House’s sensitive skin, making his hard length twitch in desperate interest. A drop of precum beaded at the tip in anticipation. Wilson hummed softy as he pulled his fingers teasingly along House’s cock while he tipped his head forward, his tongue licking that drop away before the younger man’s lips split around the tip of his dick. The flat of his tongue pressed roughly against House’s cockhead, slipping forward to curl around the underside as that wet muscle slid downward. There was just the hint of teeth against his skin, smoothed over with the soft ridges of Jimmy’s palate as the younger man swallowed his dick down slightly before pulling back and bobbing down once more. The suction pulled the ridged band of his foreskin tight against the flare of the glans in a sharp nip of pleasure that squeezed the breath from his lungs.

Jimmy’s hand curled along his length, fingers gripping just behind the glans and pulling the foreskin back as his thumb pressed roughly against House’s frenulum. And _that_ was new, as Wilson’s fingers squeezed just shy of _too much_ , pulling House’s attention down to the younger man. Which probably hadn’t been his best idea, because his orgasm cinched up tight in his guts, becoming a writhing, roiling thing as he looked down at Wilson. With Jimmy’s fingers curled tight just behind the head of his cock and his soft lips spread around it, pressed up against his knuckle, House felt that desire punch viscerally into him. Despite the younger man’s grip, House felt the muscles at the base of his dick flex with want. He groaned as Wilson’s tongue smoothed slowly over his slit, collecting precum as he breathed out slightly. With a hum, his cheeks hollowed, his lips sealing around House’s tip as that wet, hot muscle rolled deftly against the head of his cock and the younger man swallowed. And _that_ was more than good enough in its own right, but then Wilson was rubbing along his frenulum, his thumbpad dragging firmly along that tender tissue with just a hint of nail.

The sensation punched into him, sharp and bright, lifting like barbs of pleasure under his ribs as House tried to rock his hips forward. Wilson’s fingers curled around his hip tightened, held him pinned more firmly to the door as the younger man’s touch turned more heavy-handed. House groaned, fingers tightening in Jimmy’s hair as his head fell back, thumping against the door. And it was rough in the best way and _definitely_ too good, sending pleasure licking up scalding hot along his spine, knotting tight and heavy in his hips. “Gonna cum,” he gritted out, tugging at Wilson’s hair because that was _embarrassingly_ fast. His spine arched, as if he could pull his dick from the tight, wet grip of Jimmy’s mouth, as if he truly wanted to. And Wilson, that _infuriating_ _bastard,_ just hummed as the circle of his fingers pulled down along House’s length, stroking roughly before curling around the base as Jimmy’s mouth sunk lower on his cock. He groaned again, fingers tightening in Wilson’s dark hair as he looked down at the younger man, which had _definitely_ been a bad idea. Because Jimmy’s pretty mouth was stretched delightfully around his cock, his lips shiny and swollen from the motion, with his eyes closed and his dark lashes fanned on his pink tinged cheeks. House groaned again, feeling his dick jump on reflex, because the younger man looked like such a pretty cock slut, down on his knees and swallowing House’s dick like he’d been made for it. House’s hand dropped from the doorknob to Wilson’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing roughly against the bone as he groaned low in his chest, his fingers tightening in Wilson’s hair.

“Jesus, Jimmy,” he huffed out, his hips trying their hardest to fuck forward even as the muscles along his spine flexed and fluttered against Wilson’s grip holding him in place. House swallowed roughly as he tried to pull the tatters of his composure about him. Which was about the time that the tip of Wilson’s tongue slid up along the base of House’s cock as Jimmy’s lips sealed around the base of his dick with something close to a slurp. The younger man’s palm spread hotly against his mons, the webbing of Wilson’s thumb and forefinger keeping House’s dick in place as Jimmy’s nose pressed up against his pubic hair. The tip of his cock slipped into the tight clench of Wilson’s throat and the younger man swallowed roughly before his head bobbed backward. House’s hips tried to jerk forward after that wet heat, but Jimmy’s fingers curled tightly around his hip, keeping him pinned to the door against his back as Wilson swallowed down his length once more.

Wilson’s mouth sealed around the base of his cock, his cheeks hollowing filthily as he sucked at House’s cock roughly, swallowing wetly along House’s length. The feeling of that suction tugged at his guts, pulling hotly at that knot of pleasure forming under his skin as Jimmy’s tongue curled around the underside of House’s cock, the muscle flexing roughly as Wilson swallowed around his length. House’s head thumped back against the door with a gutted-out and wrecked sound, his fingers tightening in Wilson’s hair. The younger man’s fingers curled around the base of his dick, twisting slightly as if looking for the right grip. Jimmy’s thumb rubbed against the thrumming vein along the underside of his cock, nail pulling slightly along fragile skin as Wilson’s head bobbed almost languidly before he slipped his mouth down just past the flare of House’s cockhead. His cheeks hollowed, his tongue flexing against the sensitive tip while Jimmy sucked filthily. His fingers tightened and twisting, giving short, rough strokes up along House’s length in a way that had that burning ache bolting down through him, settling heavily in his bones. House groaned low in his throat, fingers curling roughly against Wilson’s shirt as his eyes squinted shut, spine curving as all his muscles cinched up tight. Already, his toes were curling against the floor, his hips doing their damnedest to rock forward into the wet vacuum of Jimmy’s mouth. The younger man’s head slipped back, mouth closing firmly around the head of his cock and sucking roughly as the slick muscle of his tongue dragging over the slit.

That white-hot pleasure burned through House, shriveling his lungs and cinching his guts up tight. And what he wouldn’t give to just be able to fuck into Jimmy’s mouth. Groaning, his fingers curled almost unforgivingly in Wilson’s hair, stopping just shy of tugging. But the younger man seemingly got the hint, once more languidly bobbing his head in slow, sweeping strokes, his tongue curled against the underside of his dick. The sheen of precum and spit along Jimmy’s stretched mouth was obscene as his length slipped past those slightly swollen lips, pulling his attention because how could House _not_ watch that. His eyes fluttered open, and House’s attention homed in on the younger man’s slightly swollen lips as Jimmy’s head bobbed forward slowly. The corners of his mouth were slick as Wilson’s head pulled back, swallowing around the head of House’s cock before slipping off with a lewd sound that buried down under House’s ribs and yanked hotly. House was pretty sure that sound would star in all of his oral fantasies from then on. The tip of Jimmy’s tongue, pink and glistening wet, darted out to draw along the slit of House’s dick, collecting the dribble of precum leaking from the tip. Wilson’s dark gaze drifted upward, peering up at House hotly from beneath the fringe of his lashes as Jimmy’s lips parted, leaning forward slowly until his mouth pressed against House’s tip in an approximation of a kiss and his eyes fluttered closed. Wilson’s lips closed around his tip, his bottom lip dragging along the underside of his cockhead as Jimmy tipped forward, swallowing House’s glans down.

And _Jesus_ wasn’t that a sight, as Wilson’s lips slipped past the tip of his cock, dragging against sensitive skin as Jimmy’s hot, wet mouth closed around his glans. House curled his fingers tightly against Wilson’s scalp, his nails scraping through dark hair roughly. “Jesus,” he groaned softly, his voice squeezing out of his chest roughly. His hips tried to press forward, and Wilson’s thumb dug against the crest of bone and stretched tight skin. Jimmy’s grip along his hip lessened, _finally_ letting House’s body jerk forward, pressing his length more firmly between Wilson’s lips. House wheezed out a soft noise, his fingers tightening along the line of Jimmy’s shoulder as his hips hunched forward, barely fucking his length past Wilson’s lips and into the hot suction of his mouth. He watched his cock disappear between the younger man’s bruised, wet lips, feeling that sharp, hot pleasure corkscrew along House’s spine. His length throbbed, dribbling precum and smearing it against the roof of Wilson’s mouth.

Wilson pulled back, swallowing as he did so, rocking back to rest against his heels. Jimmy looked so fucking beautiful like that, with his cheeks flushed and his lips red and shiny with spit and precum. The younger man’s palms slipped down along his thighs, thumbs rubbing lightly as Jimmy tipped his head back to stare at House. Wilson’s tongue swept along his lower lip wetly, and House felt his chest hitch at that motion and the swipe of slick it left behind. He groaned low in his chest, his hand slipping around to cup Wilson’s chin, his thumb digging down into Jimmy’s bottom lip. He pulled the plump swell of flesh away from Wilson’s teeth before sliding his thumbpad upward for the tip to hook on the edge of Jimmy’s teeth. The younger man’s lips parted as he peered up at House from beneath his lashes with eyes impossibly dark and glittering with something dark and hungry. The pad of House’s thumb slipped along the flat of Wilson’s tongue, pressing down into the slick muscle to encourage the younger man’s mouth to open more. And Jimmy went easily, the corners of his eyes creasing with something sharp and primal as he let his mouth fall open to form a pretty _o_ of slightly bruised lips and the hidden away edge of teeth. House groaned again, his thumb digging down into slick muscle as his hips jerked forward slightly to slide the tip of his cock along Wilson’s cheek. A feeling of visceral possessiveness punched down into him, seeing his precum against the younger man’s skin.

“Jesus, Jimmy,” House whispered hoarsely, low in his chest, watching his dick leave a dribble of precum along the younger man’s cheek. He tipped his hips to the side, pulling his length against the bend of his thumb. Jimmy’s lids closed, offering up the dark fan of lashes on flushed cheeks as his tongue slipped under the head of House’s cock. Wilson’s lips closed slightly, forming over part of his length with that hot, slick mouth. The flat of his tongue smoothed along the underside of House’s glans, his tip just barely past Wilson’s lips. The younger man pressed his head forward just barely, swallowing past the glans of House’s cock as his tongue slid downward along the underside of House’s length before dragging back. Groaning, House jerked his hips forward. And while Wilson’s fingers curled tighter around his hip, Jimmy made no move to stop House. Closing his eyes, House swallowed roughly, trying to get a hold of himself. He pressed the length of his dick up along his thumb, following the line of bone and flesh to guide his cock into the hot suction of Jimmy’s mouth. House’s thumb pressed down into Wilson’s tongue, rubbing the pad along the slick muscle as he slipped his cock further into the younger man’s mouth, keeping Wilson’s mouth lax as his dick followed the side of his thumb, fucking slowly past Jimmy’s lips as his fingers curled around Wilson’s jaw, his thumb bearing down against teeth and tongue.

Jimmy’s fingers curled around House’s hips, no longer pinning but rather tugging House closer with a breathy whine that was muffled by Jimmy’s throat. “Jesus, Jimmy,” he groaned, curving slightly over Wilson’s form once more. The hand on the younger man’s shoulder slid down to dig fingers down into the space between Jimmy’s shoulder blades. Wilson made a soft noise around his length as the younger man’s mouth went a little laxer, allowing House to press his hips closer. He felt his tip slip into Wilson’s throat briefly before the younger man pulled back with a rough swallow. House pushed his fingers through Wilson’s hair, groaning softly in contentedness as Jimmy bobbed his head slowly along his length with a soft, appreciative hum. It all felt a bit like some sort of hazy subspace as his hips rocked forward as Wilson’s mouth pressed past House’s glans, sucking wetly down House’s length. Jimmy tipped his head forward, swallowing House’s length. House pressed his hips forward with a muted grunt, the sound punched out of him as his hips rolled forward.

He groaned, low and deep, as his hips jerked again. Wilson’s hand spread on his hip, wide and hot as the younger man kept him from thrusting too deep as House fucked into Jimmy’s mouth. House keened, a tight and bright sound as his hips jerked forward, his length slipping past the younger man’s lips. He groaned lowly as House pressed his hips forward. Jimmy was more than happy swallowing his length down, and House was more than happy feeding his length to the younger man. House groaned low in his chest, his hips rocking forward to press his cock past the younger man’s lips. About that time, Wilson took his length down fully once more, Jimmy’s mouth slipping down until he bobbed his head back to swallow roughly around the tip of House’s cock. The hand curled around his hip pulled him forward, tugging at him until House felt himself slip once more into the fluttering tightness of Jimmy’s throat. Wilson’s soft hum rattled into him, down to bone and setting him alight with sharp pleasure. The younger man’s other hand slipped up to the crease of his thigh, Jimmy’s fingers smoothing along his perineum, pressing up against his prostate with clever fingertips separated from the knot of nerves only by fragile skin. House was pretty certain he made an embarrassing noise, that it cleaved itself out of his chest, but he couldn’t exactly be sure. Jimmy’s fingertips were rubbing a rough little circle over that knot, making his vision white out there are the edges. His hips tried ineffectually to press deeper into that clenching tightness of Jimmy’s throat, but Wilson kept him pinned to the door. Making House take that rush of pleasure, bright and scalding as it slithered down along his spine, wound itself into tight knots in his guts.

The feeling of those fingers drifting higher, nails dragging lightly against tender skin before dry fingertips caught roughly at his rim was what did him in. It was unfair really, that Jimmy had such a mouth on him. That the younger man knew all those fucking tricks that undid House like shitty knots after twisting him up so tight. And two dry fingertips rubbing aimless circles around his clenching rim, pressing in slightly and teasing at breaching him while Wilson swallowed around his dick shouldn’t have set him off like that, but it certainly didn’t stop House from cumming hard enough he thought that his brain might hemorrhage. That pleasure was sharp, burning through him and incinerating his bones, so good it fucking _hurt_ as Jimmy’s fingers pressed into the clench of his rim and _tugged._ Wilson pulled back just barely, swallowing roughly around his length before sucking down once more as those fingers pressed up into him, spread him apart slightly. And that turned his orgasm a bit sharper, digging down into his deep muscles while it felt like Jimmy was trying to suck all the air from his chest. The feeling of it was too much in the best possible way, with overstimulation licking up hotly at the heels of that pleasure as House tried to press closer to Wilson. He might have sobbed wetly, as his dick flexed in Jimmy’s perfect mouth while his orgasm hollowed him out.

Finally, Jimmy pulled back, his breath flaring hotly on House’s tender underbelly. Gasping in ragged breaths, House let the line of Wilson’s shoulder against his lower stomach keep him standing. Pleasure snapped at his neurons, sharply edged and delightful as he tried to get his breathing back under control, earth-shattering orgasm aside. He swallowed roughly, trying to suck in a more substantial breath than the ragged panting. The younger man’s hands slipped up, palms curving along House’s heaving ribs to support more of his weight. House smoothed his fingers through Jimmy’s hair as he curved over him, feeling hollowed out in the best kind of way as his lungs started to function properly. Wilson hummed softly, tipping his mouth up to press a soft kiss to House’s skin. “Can we move this to the bed,” the younger man huffed lightly, somehow managing to sound exasperated and fond in the same breath. “Because my knees are beginning to hurt.”

“Carry me,” House quipped breathily, teasing but also not because he wasn’t entirely sure his knees would bear his weight.

“I’m not carrying you,” Wilson muttered, eyeroll implied.

House spread his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders, straightening his arms to stand up. His knees definitely trembled as his spine pulled upright, but the bed was close enough that he could probably make it. Huffing a little, House carefully stepped out of his discarded jeans and boxers, hobbling for the bed as he shucked his shirt. He collapsed on the bed, legs mostly off the mattress. With a groan, House rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows to regard the younger man. Wilson slowly unfolded himself from the floor, an arm already bending over Jimmy’s shoulder to tug his shirt up over his head. And _honestly_ , it was just the flex of muscle, of skin over bone but Wilson had always been distracting, fascinating, _prettier_ than he had any right being. But then again, the younger man had always been so adept at pulling House’s attention. Years and years of practice, until it had turned instinctual for House to sway closer to Jimmy, to allow himself to be pulled into the other man’s orbit. Wilson’s hands dropped to the fly of his worn jeans as he made his way across the bedroom floor. And the denim stretched delightfully over the younger man’s groin, in a way that pushed heat into House’s belly despite having just came. The worn jeans and thin boxers pushed down over hips, along legs before Jimmy crawled into the bed. He folded himself down along House’s side, his erection pressing hot and heavy, velvet-soft against House’s hip in a way that jerked want up along the slats of his ribs. House groaned, twisting to throw his right leg over the younger man’s hip, hand wedging between them to curl around the base of that lovely cock. It jumped against his grip, precum-slick and veins pounding heavily with the beat of Wilson’s heart.

“Jesus,” House gasped out, crushing his mouth to Jimmy’s. He could taste himself on Jimmy’s tongue, faint and bitter as he licked past Wilson’s teeth. It tugged possessively at his guts. “You and that fucking mouth,” he groaned, biting at Jimmy’s bottom lip before fucking his tongue sloppily into the younger man’s mouth as his fingers curled in the dark strands at the back of Wilson’s skull.

Wilson’s hips jerked, pressing his length more firmly into House’s grip. “Please don’t call it pretty,” the younger man groaned, tucking his face into the crook of House’s neck while his hips rocked upward into that tight circle of fingers. The sharp edge of teeth nipped along his pulse, soothed that sting with wet, sucking kisses as Wilson made his way up the line of House’s throat. And for the younger man still having enough of his mental facilities together to pull that out of his box of trivial movie knowledge, he was fucking into the clench of House’s hand pretty desperately.

House knotted his fingers tightly in the younger man’s hair, pulling Jimmy’s face up for a more desperate kiss. He nipped and sucked at Wilson’s bottom lip, pressing his tongue forward to rub slickly with Jimmy’s. “Such a purdy mouth, Jimmy,” he gasped out, stroking Wilson roughly. He rolled his thumb over the tip, slicking precum down along Jimmy’s pretty dick, squeezing his fingers just to feel that lovely length flex against his touch. House groaned roughly, low in his chest as he stroked Wilson quicker, twisting his wrist on each upstroke, his fingers squeezing on the down.

“I hate you,” Jimmy whined without rancor, his tone breathless as they kissed messily, all attempts at finesse abandoned. Wilson’s hand slipped along House’s back, his fingers spreading hotly against his lower back and tugging until their bodies were pressed flush. House swore he could feel those blunt fingertips bearing down, crushing delicate capillaries, and leaving marks on House’s skin. He groaned as the younger man ground up against him, hips jerking forward impatiently. And the lack of distance between them meant that House was no longer actively stroking Wilson’s cock, but rather just holding it tightly as the younger man fucked roughly into the circle of his fingers. The tip smeared wetly along his groin, yanking viscerally at him as Wilson crushed their mouths together, teeth clicking. Jimmy shifted, pressing him back into the mattress as the younger man curved over him, effectively straddling his good thigh. House pulled at his hair until Jimmy’s spine arched sharply with a soft, broken noise.

Wilson’s fingers curled through his, squeezing as the younger man pulled their joined hands along his length slowly. House untangled his hand from Wilson’s, reaching up to dig his fingers down along the younger man’s shoulder, pulling until Wilson balanced more fully over him. He curled his fingers around the ridge of Jimmy’s shoulder, tugging Wilson down toward him until they shared the same breath, hot and damp with panted out pleasure. The younger man groaned softly as he stripped his palm against his length slow and rough, his hips jerking forward into the downward slide of his hand. House made a soft noise as Wilson’s cock, precum-slick and throbbing hotly, slipped against his belly as Jimmy fucked through the clench of his fingers. Wilson shifted his grip, his knuckles pressing against House’s stomach as he fucked down into his hand, grinding the tip wetly against House’s skin, smearing precum in the wiry hair there. House tightened his fingers in Jimmy’s hair, dropping the hand from Wilson’s shoulder to get an elbow up under him, pushing himself up slightly to press against the younger man’s leaking dick more firmly. That velvet-steel length slipped up against his stomach, fucking almost roughly against House’s skin.

The younger man’s supporting arm folded more heavily by House’s chest, and for Jimmy barely eating enough to keep a bird alive, Wilson’s body was hot and _heavy_ in the best way against his. He grunted, nearly losing his balance because Jimmy was a solid weight. Just the burning press of skin, shifting muscle, and solid bone where it crushed down against House’s chest, restricting his breathing, and making him hyperaware of the younger man’s weight. All the space between them was crushed away as Wilson practically seared himself against House, his hips juddering forward impatiently. Jimmy’s dick was a hot, slick line where it pressed between their lower bellies, smearing precum where it was crushed between them as Wilson’s hips hunched. House tightened his fingers, tugging sharply in the younger man’s hair as his teeth scored a sharp line down Jimmy’s throat. Wilson’s hips jerked forward with a low whine, grinding and stuttering as he came. His spend was hot, thick where it smeared and spurted against House’s skin, the younger man’s hips still jerking and fucking through the mess spilled across his hip, smeared on his belly while Jimmy made a soft noise low in his chest. House groaned in response, flexing his abdominals to give Wilson something firmer to grind out the last of his orgasm on, because there was something proprietary and visceral, something _stupid hot_ about Jimmy cumming on him. Wilson’s head dropped to House’s shoulder, his arm bending more sharply as Wilson leaned more heavily into him until his weight forced House back onto the bed with a puff of an exhalation as the younger man collapsed against him.

Jimmy folded against more fully against House’s chest, uncaring of his weight as Wilson tucked his face into the crook of House’s neck and the younger man struggled to catch his breath. And House realized he could feel the heavy pound of Wilson’s heart, right there at the hollow beneath his sternum, as his ribs shuddered. House smoothed a palm along Jimmy’s back, stroking his fingertips along the spines of the younger man’s vertebrae. Wilson’s skin was tacky with sweat against his hand and with congealing cum where Jimmy’s hips pressed against the swell of his hip, where their stomachs pressed together. And it was more than a little gross and painstakingly present and House wouldn’t have traded it for anything as their bodies crushed together. Because Jimmy’s weight was hot and heavy, _alive_ where it crushed against his ribs, his chest. After all, who knew how many more days he’d be able to spend with the younger man weighing him down?

Wilson huffed out a soft noise, pressing his fingers up through House’s hair as Jimmy tipped his head just a little more to press soft kisses against his throat. “Gimme a second; I’ll clean you up,” Jimmy murmured, his voice a low and lazy, fucked-out thing that hedged on drifting off. House could feel the younger man’s lashes fluttering sleepily against the fragile skin of his neck. He just hummed out a noncommittal noise, smoothing his hand up and down along the column of Jimmy’s back, pulling his nails gently against cooling skin.

He tipped his head against Wilson’s, his lips brushing dark hair mindlessly. “It can wait.”

After all, they still had time. What did it matter if he spent one night with dried cum on his skin, matted in his hair, because it was still a night with Wilson. It was still a night spent with Jimmy’s heavy weight grounding him, with their skins stuck together and their lungs falling into the same rhythm. He pushed his fingers aimlessly through the younger man’s dark hair, more than content to suffer the mess if it gave him more moments like that. Where the afterglow steeped into him, left him lazy and fucked out, with the younger man curled up against him like House was all Wilson needed.

In the morning, he left Jimmy folded into the corner of the couch, _East of Eden_ spread over his lap. He squeezed Wilson’s shoulder, made some quip about the novel, and only halfway listened as Jimmy huffed and explained the importance of _timshel_ like it was a synonym of the word _faith_. His mouth twisted in humor, but then Jimmy had tipped his head back against the sofa, and how was House not supposed to press a kiss to those lips before leaving their borrowed cabin.

And honestly, House was beginning to understand why Wilson went down to the lakeside for hours at a time, because there was a heavy sort of peace out there. Too far from the beaches to endure more than the occasional pair of kayakers or a random group of hikers, the cabin was sheltered in its little cove. The rough lap of lake waves against smooth rock was lulling. Out there, time wasn’t a fragile, demure thing. Instead, it was robust in its coming, like it demanded the whole world pay attention to it. House saw it in the leaves just beginning to change color, starting to fall. He felt its pull way down deep in his bones as the nights turned cooler and the sun took longer to warm the frost from the ground. He leaned back against the rocks, holding his cane across his lap as he looked out at the waves. It was a perilous pain in the ass, him getting out there, but totally worth it for the view.

If only his thoughts would fall silent.

“You cannot touch these phantoms,” he huffed to himself, letting the cool breeze off the lake snatch his words away. House would breathe them aloud to the wilderness of the Upper Peninsula as often as it took to abscise that emotional wound.

Because August was pulling to a close, wrapping around their lakeside paradise like brisk, frosty mornings and pine logs burning. And oddly enough, sounding like wheezing breaths and rattling coughs and exhausted voices. Feeling like tiredness, laziness that was bone deep and soul heavy. And House couldn’t help but feel like he’d made a deal with the Devil to keep Jimmy just a little longer, as Tumie did its damnedest to hollow Wilson out inside. Huffing out a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and picked his way carefully back the way he’d come because there was a pretty man waiting for him in their borrowed home, preferably with a joint and maybe some dinner. Maybe he could convince Wilson to share lazy kisses on that leather monstrosity called a couch. They could light a fire in the belly of the stove, share a bottle of scotch, and listen to that fucking Norah Jones album just because he knew it’d make Jimmy smile. Which that would make the whole thing worth it. House told himself he could be soft if that was what Wilson wanted as he stepped up on the porch, crossing to the door.

“What are you doing,” was the first, and probably the stupidest, thing he could think of to say as the door closed behind him. Because it was pretty obvious what Wilson was doing, as the younger man shook a few Tylenol out into the heavy mortar. But Jimmy didn’t answer him. Instead, Wilson just bit at his bottom lip, shaking his head slightly as he dropped the smooth marble pestle down into the bowl with a muffled thump, grinding smoothly like he was crushing herbs rather than acetaminophen in an over-the-counter variety. There was at least a good inch of powder in the bottom of a glass just off Jimmy’s elbow, and at least five bottles of extra-strength tablets waited at the edge of the table for their turn. It was not at all what House had expected to come home to. Even if he had seen it coming, had heard it in the wheezing rasp of Jimmy’s tone and the rough rattle of the younger man’s cough early in the morning, when his lungs tried to remember how to function properly. But he had resolutely ignored it, because it was too early, there just at the end of August.

It was only the thirtieth.

He was still supposed to have a month.

That fucked up, probably there God had practically _promised_ him until the end of September. Had given him five _whole_ months with Wilson, and how could that deity just renege on that.

House’s chest squeezed as he limped across the floor, leaving his cane by the door and catching hold of Jimmy’s wrist tightly, stilling the downward grind of the pestle. He waited, because eventually Wilson would have to look up at him, would have to _explain_. But Wilson just kept his eyes on the table, his jaw clenched. The silence settled between them, feeling like stones in his guts. He drew in a deep breath, tugging on Wilson’s wrist slightly until the younger man looked up at him. Jimmy’s eyes were wet, red-rimmed and House felt that hurt steep down into him. Wilson, for all the nights he had coughed himself awake or his tone squeezed tight, had never once let on. The younger man had never once let on that it was too much, too hard; had never let on that he was worn down and thin, right there at giving up.

And how was it fair that Jimmy was still providing him with what little strength the younger man had left?

He cupped Wilson’s face gently, tipping his chin up further. “So, were you going to mention it? Or would I just come back and find you,” and his tone came out harsher, more ragged than he’d expected. Because _that_ hurt. Because Jimmy would have cheated him out of saying _I love you_ one last time, of one more kiss goodbye, of the feeling of Wilson in his arms and his hands clutching at House’s shirt. Those dark eyes slipped closed as Wilson’s mouth twisted wryly and tears scattered down his cheeks. The first he’d seen since they’d started the whole thing, and House was powerless to not brush them away, sweeping his thumbs against that soft skin.

“Do you really want me to answer that,” Wilson breathed out, leaning into House’s touch.

“Well, that would have been a really shitty surprise,” he grumped. “Definitely could have been something we talked about instead of you just springing it on me.”

Wilson pulled free from House’s palms and started getting to his feet, leaving his task of crushing pills alone for the moment. House planted a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down into the chair. Jimmy looked up at him, blinking wetly as his lips twisted. “And say what.” The younger man huffed out an almost laugh. “You didn’t want to talk about it. I’ve tried,” Wilson stressed, teeth gritted in a sharp-edged smile as he pushed to his feet defiantly.

“Am I supposed to be sorry for not wanting to talk about you _dying_ ,” House scoffed, his head rearing back as his lips twisted bitterly.

Jimmy leaned back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “No! But I would really like for us to _talk_ about it, instead of me just sneaking around. _Waiting_ for it. It’s going to happen, Greg!”

“So, what? You decided the best way to talk about it was actually to just crush up a whole fucking case of Tylenol and kill your liver; for me to come home to you in a goddamn coma?” He was aware of his tone getting louder, but his chest was cinching up tight, squeezing the words out from under his ribs with the sharp edge of hysteria. House had stopped blinking, only vaguely aware of the prickling at the back of his eyes and unwilling to shed any tears when Wilson was being so fucking _stupid_. “This isn’t anything like fucking _morphine_ , Jimmy,” he snapped out.

“You don’t think I know that,” Wilson bit out, his jaw tense and dark eyes glimmering with hurt and anger. His shoulders squared, even as his throat bobbed with a rough swallow. “But I won’t fucking apologize for it. You _knew_ where this was going.”

Honestly, he’d seen that look before, always right before the younger man snapped in some sort of compacity that made polite society wince. House stopped, feeling his heart squeezing sharply because he could finally see the way Jimmy’s bottom lip trembled, the way his fingers curled up tight against his palm, the tears that had collected there at his bottom lashes. He sighed softly, holding his hands out in surrender as he slowly approached. House boxed Jimmy up against the table, his hands spreading on either side of the younger man’s hips as he leaned into Wilson. He tilted into the ex-oncologist, pressing his forehead to Wilson’s as he leaned in close. They shared the same breath, and he could feel the tension beginning to melt out of the rigid line of Wilson’s shoulders as House lifted a hand, cupping the younger man’s jaw. Jimmy sighed softly, his breath fluttering against House’s mouth.

“When I said I didn’t know what I'd do without you, I meant it.” House swallowed hard, feeling his throat click drily. “And you just want me to, what? Discuss the End Times? Or worse, just come home to them,” he muttered, feeling those words dig down, sharp and unforgiving, into the tender inside of his chest. “It’s fucking _terrifying_ ,” House finally whispered before gritting his teeth, like he’d given a name to something devastating and therefore made it _real_. Because as long as they didn’t talk about it, he could still _pretend_ that there was a little time left _._

The younger man’s shoulders slumped further with another sigh, his head tipping against House’s palm in defeat. “It hurts,” Jimmy finally breathed out, his voice twisted up tight and pulled thin. His chest expanded heavily with a breath. “And I’m trying to be here for you, Greg. I really am. But Christ, it feels like I can’t breathe. Like my lungs are filled with rocks, and they’re all rattling around inside there, weighing me down.”

He stepped closer to the younger man, impossibly, his arm slipping around Wilson to hold him loosely, his hand pressing up to cup along the back of Wilson’s head, pulling him closer. “You dying isn’t about me, Jimmy,” he reminded the other, even though it pained him to do so. How badly he wanted to be selfish in that moment. “You shouldn’t have to be strong for me.” Which earned him a huff of laughter, as Wilson tucked in against his chest, pressing his forehead to House’s shoulder.

“I don’t feel very strong,” Wilson scoffed.

“You’re one of the strongest,” House muttered, smoothing his palm along Jimmy’s back. “But come to bed with me. Sleep on it. Give it a week or two.” He was just begging for more time; time that was running out more quickly than he had thought. And while House couldn’t see the agreement in Jimmy’s face, he could feel that acceptance of terms in the slump of his shoulders, in the tears that pressed into House’s throat. Because Jimmy let House pull him to bed. Let him strip the younger man down to boxers and undershirt, ease him back into bed before House struggled with his own clothes. And suddenly, every second without Wilson pressed against him cut at House; it sheared off slivers of his soul. He folded himself down into the covers, pulling at Jimmy until the younger man slipped between his legs, rested against his chest. And House could feel each shuddering breath. Wilson tipped his head upward, pressing his face against the line of House’s throat, and the little rasps of his breathing prickled at his skin, raising goosebumps.

“Don’t the Jews have pretty stringent views on suicide,” House tried to tease, even as he pushed his fingers through Wilson’s hair, tipping his head down to regard the younger man where he rested against House’s chest. “Or are those Mormons,” he quipped lightly as he scraped his nails gingerly against Jimmy’s scalp. “Actually, maybe you missed out on that one. Polygamy is encouraged out in Utah.”

Jimmy’s teeth nipped lightly at his pulse as Wilson pressed his face in closer against the crook of House’s neck. House could feel the twist of his smile. “Do you _seriously_ want to have a conversation about Judaism and suicide. I can probably pull up some of the lessons of my childhood.”

“Just a thought,” House grumbled, folding his arm possessively around Jimmy’s shoulders, pulling the younger man impossibly closer.

Wilson huffed out a breath of laughter against his throat. “ _Anuss K’Shaul_.” Jimmy’s lips brushed along his skin. “Burial and mourning rites intact, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

House sucked in a deep breath, because he kind of had been worried about Wilson being able to take his rites. Mostly because he just wanted Wilson to be able to do what he wanted, and there was that niggling sense of worry that Jimmy might turn his back on his wishes just to appease his mother and her religion. He hummed noncommittally, pushing his fingers through Wilson’s dark hair as he settled back into the pillows. Wilson’s breathing slowed, gentled in his sleep, leaving House wide, _wide_ awake with thoughts way too loud. Because he’d been given a week, two at best. And how was he supposed to cram almost nineteen years of devotion into seven to fourteen days? Nineteen years of devotion was something that deserved to be spread out, scattered into months of quiet nights and romantic dinners, of breakfasts in bed and kisses in the rain. Not to mention nineteen years would have compiled, multiplied until House was spending the rest of his days offering devotion to Wilson, which didn’t sound too bad. He ran his fingers absentmindedly through Jimmy’s hair, because it was more than that.

He had a week, two at best to decide his own fate.

And those seven to fourteen days, he knew, would simultaneously feel like the blink of an eye as well as a lifetime of struggles.

Not that it mattered in the end, because he took the struggles as they came. Struggles that resulted in sleepless nights and days spent in bed; struggles that produced meals that Jimmy didn’t even attempt to eat; struggles where they drank too much, smoked too much, and lingered in a hazy, half-life place. And while House was struggling with the whole End Times decision in itself, he was currently struggling with the fact that his favorite dispensary had been out of their preferred bud in the pre-rolled variety for easy consumption, and as such, Jonas had just decided to bring loose leaf Kush and papers home to them. House rolled his eyes as he creased a thin sheet of paper between his thumbs and forefingers, huffing out a groan of a sigh, his head tipping back with exasperation.

Personally, he preferred bowls, but that preference had offered up two snags. One, that preference required them purchasing a pipe which was _definitely_ more expensive than wrapping papers, even if it was just a onetime expense. And two, he needed both hands to smoke a bowl, whereas the joint was a one-handed venture that allowed for him to be in constant contact with Jimmy whenever they were close enough. The one downside about rolling joints instead of filling bowls was that it required a certain amount of finesse. Finesse that House apparently didn’t have, because his first joint had kind of come a little loose when Wilson had lit it. Jimmy had just laughed and twisted it a few times before trying again. The second one had looked a bit like a piece of hard candy, with a big bulge in the middle and way too much paper on the ends, even after they both smooshed at the middle in an attempt to smooth it down. Which was when Wilson had reached over and snagged the rolling papers and baggie as House had been gathering the things to roll a third.

House watched, a little impressed, as Wilson took over the whole rolling process with an almost smile, rubbing the leaves between his fingers in a tight, thick line along the crease of the paper before rolling it. He watched Jimmy twist the ends before he handed over the neatly rolled blunt. House stared at it dumbly for a moment before his thumb flicked along the wheel of the lighter, holding the end of the joint into the flame. He took the first hit before passing it along. House flopped back into the corner of the sofa to stare thoughtfully at Wilson. “So,” he drawled, watching as Jimmy took two short tokes, holding the joint loosely in his fingertips as his head dipped downward. Seconds pulled past before the smoke plumed in a tight stream, floating listlessly down toward Wilson’s lap. Jimmy took a longer drag, showing House a gritted smile as he tried to hand the joint back over. Instead of taking his turn, he just stared at the younger man. “Are we just gonna pretend you didn’t just wrap a tight roach?”

“I used to roll my grandfather’s cigarettes,” Jimmy quipped, voice tight as he tried to keep the smoke in his lungs. It escaped with the giggles as Wilson pulled his feet up on the sofa, his mouth cut in a wide grin. “You were too loose with it, too much air.” Jimmy’s leg bent up against the back cushions of the couch as he stretched out his other leg, pushing his foot into House’s lap carefully and tucking his toes under the wreck of House’s bad thigh. The smoke petered out with the last of Jimmy’s giggles as he took another hit and handed it over. The younger man’s smile was a smug, rebellious thing with more than a hint of teeth that _yanked_ at House’s guts, as it always did. As it always _had_ for going on twenty years. “Actually, my roommate at McGill might have had a few proclivities.” He shrugged. “I just picked it up, I guess.”

He blinked dumbly at the younger man for a second, because he was pretty certain that rolling blunts wasn’t just something one picked up by osmosis. “Why Jimmy,” House purred mockingly. “What a bad boy you are.” He caught the joint firmly with his lips and sucked. He could hear the Kush burning inside the paper, a faint crackling sound as he pulled heady smoke deep into his lungs. He handed the joint over, holding the smoke trapped behind his ribs until his lungs started to burn. House blew a lazy smoke ring toward the ceiling.

“Pot’s legal in Canada,” Jimmy reminded him, his nose scrunching before taking a deep drag. “Besides, it kind of went with the whole film department vibe. Liam’s friends would just, I don’t know, bring it over occasionally?” Wilson shrugged like it was no big deal, like _all_ good Jewish boys sometimes smoked pot as he hand over the blunt.

House blinked at the younger man as he struggled to connect the dots, because _surely not_. “Wait. Liam as in your roommate. As in the guy who minored in film.” His revelation must have shown on his face because Jimmy coughed out a startled noise, his cheeks pinking as he realized he’d dug his own hole and jumped right in. House grinned sharply. “You smoked pot with the guy who made you into a porn star.”

“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds worse than it was,” Wilson admitted breathily, his tone squeaking a bit with embarrassment as the tips of his ears burned pink.

“Are you _sure_ it was just a speaking role,” House quipped, unashamedly leering at the younger man.

That shocked a laugh out of Wilson, bright and breathless as he tipped his head back and split the seam of his lips, allowing smoke to escape. And that was how he wanted to remember Jimmy, with his head tipped back as he laughed, and smoke plumed out from his parted teeth. Because his joints were pot-softened as he slumped back on the sofa, with one of his feet carefully in House’s lap as he stretched out on the couch. Wilson’s smile was a coy twist of lips, the only response it seemed he was going to get as Jimmy held out the half-smoked blunt. Choosing to _graciously_ let that drop, and definitely not because he didn’t want to think about what else Jimmy and Liam might’ve gotten up to, House leaned forward to pluck the joint from Wilson’s outstretched hand. He had it halfway to his mouth when Wilson made a noise like he’d had some stroke of genius before doing some overly complicated motion to pull his legs up under him and crawl across the couch toward him with that lazy smile. And maybe House was a little more fucked up than he had originally thought, because that motion was unfairly sexy, and his mind had gone stupidly blank as Wilson plucked the joint from his suddenly lax grip.

“Hey,” he breathed out, trying for indignant but landing pitifully short.

“Just trust me,” Jimmy murmured before tucking the roach into the seam of his lips and sucking, his cheeks hollowing filthily. The tip of the joint glowed red, burning down as Wilson sucked in a deeper breath than he would have thought possible for someone with a tumor in their chest, because apparently pot was some kind of miracle drug. Jimmy reached for him, his fingers tangling in House’s hair as he brought their mouths together for an open-mouthed kiss. Which was good enough in its own right, but then the younger man exhaled, sharing that smoke with him. It was instinct to breathe in, sucking Wilson’s breath down into his lungs, and that recycled smoke felt heavier somehow, more potent. How was that simple action so fucking _sexy_ , because he felt the languid arousal in his belly, twisting and simmering into a molten wad of want. Groaning, House brought their mouths together more roughly as the smoke steeped out from the seams of their lips, pulling Jimmy closer to him as he licked up past the younger man’s teeth. And the smoky, almost earthy taste of weed in Wilson’s mouth was hotter than it had any right being. His hands curled in Jimmy’s belt loops, pulling with intent as the younger man made a soft noise into that kiss.

Wilson pulled back, blinking at him with wide, glassy eyes as he fumbled to toss the joint on the coffee table before crushing his mouth back to House’s. His hands knotted in the fabric of House’s shirt, tugging as Jimmy tried his damnedest to climb into his lap, but his joints had softened and loosened, and his bones were apparently too heavy to get much further than pressed tightly against House’s chest. He reached down and grabbed Jimmy’s ass, digging his fingers into denim and pulling until Wilson was straddling his lap. Because he was pretty sure he could be stupid stoned and still have enough of his mental facilities intact to get a lapful of Jimmy. Wilson’s fingers twisted more firmly into his hair and their teeth clicked together enthusiastically as they kissed.

And while Wilson apparently didn’t have his shit together enough to climb into House’s lap, he had more than enough thoughts in his skull to hold himself up on his knees to avoid the wreck of his thigh. The height difference was ample enough for Jimmy to press him back into the sofa, to tip his head back with almost rough hands as Wilson crushed their mouths together. House groaned low in his throat, because he could practically taste the younger man’s desperation as the ex-oncologist pressed up against him. He squeezed Jimmy’s ass, pulling him closer as he tipped his head up to allow Wilson to deepen the kiss. And with the younger man wedged up tight against him, the places their bodies touched was just a burning line of heat. House slid his hands down, fingers curling around Wilson’s thighs and tugging them open just a little wider, just a little closer until Jimmy was spread over his lap, knees loosely bracketing his hips and slipping into the seam of the couch. Wilson leaned in closer, pressing House more firmly against the back of the couch, his body pinning him there as his hands slipped free from House’s hair, arms looping around House’s neck. Their noses brushed as Wilson pulled back enough to break the kiss, his breath soft and warm on House’s lips.

“I wasn’t expecting you to like it that much,” Jimmy breathed out, his tone edged in that gauzy amusement at simple things that came with being on the right side of stoned.

“I wasn’t expecting you to shotgun me,” House returned with a huff, leaning back against the sofa and pulling Wilson impossibly closer. He tipped his head up, mind working a little harder than it should have had to in order to string together basic thoughts. “Or for you to even know that was a thing.”

Wilson just gave him a smile that had only a hint of teeth as he leaned in and pressed a whisper of a kiss to House’s lips. The sharp edge of Jimmy’s teeth scraped over his bottom lip as the younger man hummed.

“You look awfully proud of yourself, Jimmy,” he grumbled, curling his fingers tighter around Wilson’s thighs and pulling. The younger man lazily rocked his hips forward, giving House a coy smirk that tugged at House’s guts hotly before Jimmy leaned forward to press a more heated kiss to House’s lips.

And it was a languid and hazy sort of passion, feeling like the best wet dream brought to life but left a little fuzzy at the edges as Jimmy licked past his teeth. In fact, House was pretty sure he’d had that dream before, but his thigh hadn’t been utterly fucked and he’d been able to appreciate the hot, heavy weight of Wilson in his lap. Well, and it had been bourbon Jimmy tasted like, because Wilson _always_ tasted like Blanton’s in his dreams, and not at all like that high-quality Kush. House groaned, digging his fingers in against Wilson’s thighs and pulling at Jimmy in an attempt to drag the younger man down more fully into his lap so he could rock his hips upward against Wilson’s weight. But Wilson, the fucking _tease_ , resolutely stayed on his knees, spread over House’s lap. House groaned into the kiss, sliding his hands upward to palm at Wilson’s ass and pulling at the younger man. He could feel the upward tilt of Jimmy’s smile where their lips pressed together.

“Do you want another hit,” Jimmy murmured against his lips. And God _yes_ did he want another hit, because Wilson’s lips pressing against his as the younger man exhaled into his mouth was stupidly intimate, ridiculously hot.

“Mm,” House hummed, spreading his hands along the crease where Jimmy’s thighs became his ass. “Gonna stretch back there and get it,” he tried to quip, right up until the moment that Wilson did just that. His body turning long and lean as Jimmy stretched backward, his knees squeezing to the outside of House’s thighs in a desperate attempt to maintain contact with House while retrieving their joint. House ran a palm up along the younger man’s side, feeling the hard ridges of bone set into soft, warm skin and hidden by worn fabric before Wilson was leaning over him again. Want squirmed through his veins. “Gymnastics, Jimmy,” he teased, mostly because Wilson in those fucking tennis shorts had been bad enough, even if he’d never managed to convince the younger man to put them back on. And the idea of Jimmy in a leotard was the kind of thing that House thought might cause a hemorrhage from thinking about it overly hard.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much,” Wilson deadpanned as he started a fight with the lighter before finally getting the flint to spark. The joint glowed red at the tip as Jimmy puffed on it until the paper caught, spiraling into a slow burn as the younger man pulled in a deep lungful of smoke and handed the blunt over to House. And admittedly, he held onto it a little stupidly, because Jimmy’s hands were cupping his face with his thumbs resting lightly against his temples and tipping his head up a little more. Wilson’s smile was a devastating thing, smug and coy with just a hint of rebellion like all those years again. That smile brought back thoughts of the younger man’s mouth stretched widely over teeth, pulling that split tight just off center on his lip and leaving House wondering what it would taste like kissing Jimmy.

House curled his fingers around the back of Wilson’s neck, pulling the younger man closer as he tipped his head upward, pressing his mouth more firmly against Wilson’s. He could feel the way the ex-oncologist’s lips twisted with a smile, slipping open as the younger man exhaled slow and smooth. His fingers tightened against Jimmy’s thigh as he inhaled, pulling Wilson against him more firmly. Wilson’s hips gave a lazy rock, grinding up against the hollow below his sternum with no real intent as Jimmy kissed him again, a little filthier as his fingers pushed up through House’s hair. But still, the hardening line of Wilson’s cock pressed up against him sparked that want down in the marrows of his bones, like House had been made for fucking the younger man. Like Jimmy being receptive and aroused was just some sort of Pavlovian command because his dick was definitely twitching in his jeans. House nipped at Wilson’s lip, putting a little space between them to look up at the younger man.

Jimmy’s eyes had drifted closed, and his face had a soft, dreamy quality like getting high with House on a couch in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was the only thing that mattered right then. His hand shifted, his palm smoothing along the younger man’s jaw, and those dark eyes fluttered open. How was House expected to _not_ kiss him, with Wilson looking soft and vulnerable and fucking _beautiful_ like that? He tugged Wilson forward, crushing their lips together as his free arm wound around Jimmy’s waist and pulled because suddenly, he needed no space between them. And it didn’t matter that House had lost track of the joint somehow, because they wound up horizontal on that oversized couch with Wilson pressing down on him.

Their kisses were messy, feral things, with way too much tongue and sharp teeth, but Jimmy was whining softly into his mouth as House’s fingers dug down into the small of his back, the curve of his ass. And for it being a little sloppy, it was infuriatingly good, fucking perfect even. Their hips ground and rocked together with a sharper intent, and their kisses carried a little more heat. His hands slipped up under Jimmy’s shirt, nails and fingertips finding soft skin as Wilson’s hands curled sharply in his hair. And it had been a _long_ time since he’d just made out on the couch, right there at high as a kite and hard as a rock with zero fucks to give about maybe cumming in his jeans, but House was pretty sure that whatever he’d had before didn’t hold a candle to what he was experiencing with Jimmy. He groaned into the kiss, sliding his hand downward to grab a handful of Wilson’s ass and yank the younger man tighter against him. Jimmy made a soft noise low in his throat, his hips grinding down eagerly. Wilson stretched over him, bracketing House’s head with his forearms as he pressed his forehead against House’s collarbone. And thank Christ for that oversized couch, because it was big enough that they weren’t exactly falling off it as Wilson shifted up for a better angle to grind their hips together. House’s fingers dug down into that worn denim, pulling Wilson closer as that languid, hazy passion burned brighter, sharper into something more urgent as his jeans tightened.

He groaned softly, because Jimmy’s mouth had pressed up against his neck and his lips and teeth were working a burning line along House’s throat. House tipped his jaw back, offering up more of that tender flesh as Wilson nipped at his pulse, pressed softer kisses along his jaw. His fingers found their way into that dark hair, pulling Jimmy’s mouth to his impatiently. The movement was uncoordinated, a little sloppy because the younger man slipped to the side marginally, nearly falling off the couch. And they dissolved into breathless giggles, laughing softly into their kiss, which made House’s chest cinch up tight because he could still feel Wilson’s smile as they traded slower kisses. Jimmy climbed more firmly onto the couch, straddling House’s hips, brushing their lips against one another more softly, something tenderhearted and loving. House smoothed his hands up along Wilson’s sides, tipping his head back to look up at the younger man. Wilson’s cheeks were pinkened with arousal, his pupils blown wide as he leaned down to press kisses to House’s mouth, twisting his hips down purposefully in a way that had House grabbing at his shirt, desperate to roll up into that slow grind.

“Take me to bed,” Jimmy murmured, his nose brushing along House’s as his teeth scraped gently at House’s bottom lip. And _Christ,_ what he wouldn’t have given for his leg to not be a worthless piece of shit, to be able to hoist the younger man up and carry him to bed, to drop him down on the mattress and fuck him like Wilson deserved. But already, Jimmy was slipping off him and heading down the hall, and House was pretty much incapable of ignoring that request as he struggled to get to his feet.

In the bedroom, House was treated to the vision of Jimmy thrown back on the bed and naked, one hand curled lazily around his lovely cock, pulling aimlessly in a way that punched the breath out of House’s lungs. Heat spiraled down into his guts, tightening and yanking sharply. He was scrambling out of his clothes before his brain had finished processing the situation, losing his shirt somewhere near the door while he stumbled out of his jeans about mid-room. House palmed himself roughly through his boxers because that sight was definitely something that deserved a full erection. He lost his boxers just before he crawled onto the bed between Wilson’s legs. He pushed his palms up the younger man’s shins, feeling the long line of hard bone just under soft skin and coarse hair. Jimmy spread his legs wider, his hips rolling upward slightly as he gave House a lazy smile that landed somewhere closer to a smirk. House smoothed a palm over Wilson’s hip, slipping upward along his flank toward his ribs as he rocked their hips together, sucking in a sharp breath as velvet-steel lengths caught and slid. The sensation of precum gliding along his skin barbed at his lungs, wrenched at his hips and drove his cock more firmly against Jimmy’s. He leaned into Wilson, pressing him down and nipping at his bottom lip. It felt fuzzy at the edges, like reality had softened as Jimmy’s hand pushed up through his hair, pulling him down for a more thorough kiss. Wilson bit at his bottom lip, bullied his tongue past the edge of House’s teeth, traced languid designs against the ridges of House’s palate. Fingers tightened in his hair, pulling as Jimmy shifted on the bed, managing to get an elbow up under him and press more firmly against House. Their chests pressed together, skins sticking. An arm hooked around his neck, tugging him closer, and honestly House was powerless against that drag.

Jimmy’s leg folded along his side, his knee pressing against House's ribs as Wilson shifted up further on his elbow, pressing more firmly into House’s chest. The fingers in his hair slipped down, knotting in the strands at the back of his skull. The younger man pulled until House crowded up against him, their mouths crushed together, lips broke open as their teeth clicked roughly. House’s hand curved hard against Wilson’s hip, palm squeezing around the arch of bone and fingers digging down into the swell of flesh. He moaned into the younger man’s mouth, teeth scraping along Wilson’s bottom lip as he licked past Jimmy’s teeth filthily. The muscles of the thigh pressed against House’s flank flexed as Jimmy rolled them, languid and softened with that high-quality Kush. Wilson smoothed his palms along the outside of House’s thighs, dipping his head to kiss and bite at House’s stomach, his chest, working his way up House’s supine form. House groaned low in his throat, his fingers pushing through Jimmy’s hair, spreading along the younger man’s shoulders as Wilson worked his way upward. Finally, Wilson was slipping up over his thighs, Jimmy’s weight settling hot and heavy against his hips. He ground their erections together lewdly as his form curved over House. Precum-slick, velvet-steel skin caught and slid together as House tipped his hips up against Wilson’s weight. He dragged his palms, hot and possessive, down over Jimmy’s ribs, his flanks. He squeezed sharply at the younger man’s hips as House pulled Wilson down against him so they could grind against one another.

His breath hooked roughly under his ribs as Jimmy pushed him down more firmly against the mattress, his hips rutting lazily against House’s. And the feeling of the younger man’s length, brand-hot and heavy, made want corkscrew burningly along his spine, as he tried to tip up into the motion. He dropped his head back against the pillows as Wilson’s mouth meandered across his collarbones, along the line of his throat in a myriad of sharp nips and sucking kisses. House groaned, low and deep in his chest, as his spine tried to curve and press himself more firmly against the younger man. And he’d been wrong, because Jimmy in his lap _before_ had nothing on the fucking wet dream that Wilson was spinning _right then_. Because Jimmy’s fingers were in his hair, tugging as he bit roughly along House’s pulse and his hips rocked and ground downward. House moaned, his hands slipping back to grab at Wilson’s ass, his nails digging down sharply into the meat just to feel Jimmy’s whine against his throat. He pulled more roughly, yanking the younger man down against him so their cocks could grind together heavily. Wilson’s teeth closed over his earlobe, biting sharply as his hot breath panted over the delicate furls of House’s ear. “Can you stop pawing at me long enough for me to get the lube,” Wilson quipped breathily, even as his hips ground down lewdly, smearing precum against the crease of House’s groin, fucking the viscous fluid up over his hip.

“I can try,” he muttered drily, even as he squeezed at Jimmy’s ass once more, groaning low in his throat as he rocked up into Wilson’s weight. With one last squeeze, he pulled his hands reluctantly back to Jimmy’s hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles along thin skin stretched tight over bone. One of Wilson’s hands planted against the mattress, shoving upward. House pulled his hands down along the younger man’s thighs, resisting the urge to pull Wilson back against him as Jimmy shifted slightly. The younger man’s knees bore down on either side of House’s sides as he stretched toward the bedside table. That lovely cock slipped wetly against House’s belly, dribbling precum along his skin. House groaned, sliding his hands up and down Wilson’s thighs, his palms slipping back to cup the swell of Jimmy’s ass as his own length slipped into the crease of the younger man’s groin. His hips jerked on instinct, fucking up lazily as his fingers dug down into the meat of those cheeks, pulling the younger man more firmly against him. Wilson huffed out a breath of a laugh, and House figured he should feel indignant about Jimmy laughing while they were both naked before he decided that was a hazard of fucking with a fuzzy, pot-softened mind. Not that it really mattered much as the younger man carded fingers through House’s hair, dipping down to press a breathless kiss to his mouth. House tugged at Wilson, pulling until Jimmy was crushed against him, so he could lick up behind Wilson’s teeth.

“Fuck,” House groaned into Jimmy’s mouth, his fingers digging into the younger man’s cleft as he rolled upward into the press of Wilson’s weight.

“Well, I thought that was the point,” Jimmy breathed against his lips, and House couldn’t even grumble about that because Wilson’s back was curving slightly as the younger man snicked the lube bottle open. House squinted his eyes shut, because the feeling of Jimmy’s slick fingers glancing off his knuckles as he reached around to his entrance was unfairly hot. House groaned low and deep in his chest, digging his fingertips into Jimmy’s cheeks and pulling them apart slightly. He could feel where Wilson’s slick digits circled around his rim, pressing inward in just the briefest tease of breaching that lovely hole. And what he wouldn’t give for a fucking mirror on the ceiling or _something_ because House was pretty certain that watching Jimmy curve up to work himself open would always be one of his favorite sights.

Soft, punched-out noises of pleasure brushed against his lips, his cheeks as Wilson pressed fingers past his rim, as deep as he could get them, spreading them haphazardly. House could feel Jimmy’s cock twitching impatiently, dribbling precum along the soft swell of House’s belly. And _Jesus_ , that was good, as Jimmy’s hips pressed back, his spine swaying with a soft whine. House dug his fingers roughly into the meat of Wilson’s ass, clutching and pulling as his hips rolled upward worthlessly as he watched that lovely flush spread across Jimmy’s collarbones, his lashes fluttering in pleasure as his lips parted sweetly. “Jesus, Jimmy,” he groaned, because _honestly_ James Wilson had been _made_ for fucking, his dick twitching with the prospect of being buried in the younger man’s heat. With a whine, Jimmy pushed himself up, twisting slightly to grip at House’s cock. Lube-slick fingers curled around his dick, squeezing and pulling upward slowly, twisting his palm along the glans. House rolled his hips up, fucking into that tight grip with a soft moan, his head falling back into the pillows. “Jesus, Jimmy,” he panted again, his hips fucking up into that perfect grip. Wilson’s fingers clenched along his length on the upstroke, loosening on the downstroke as the younger man milked his dick at a slow and languid pace that made House bite at his bottom lip until he tasted blood. That touch cinched want up between his hips, coiling heat along the base of his spine as he rocked his hips upward into the clench of Wilson’s grip.

Jimmy’s fingers curled around the base of his cock, squeezing it straight as Wilson straightened and pressed a hand against House’s chest before he dropped his hips, and wasn’t _that_ a thing of beauty. Because Jimmy sank down impatiently on his cock, his head tipping up with a soft, breathy exhale as he forced his muscles to relax and his legs spread. Still, those muscles clenched along his length, fighting the intrusion in the best way as Wilson’s hips twisted down until that perfect ass rested against House’s hips. House’s fingers dug down into Wilson’s thighs, trying not to pull the younger man down just as much as he was trying not to roll his hips upward into that tight clench. It was pretty much impossible because Jimmy _always_ put the least amount of effort into working himself open, but House somehow managed _not_ to fuck up into that wet heat. Wilson’s palms spread along his chest, pressing up toward his collarbones before blunt nails pulled back down slowly along House’s chest. The miniscule sway, the returning arch of Wilson’s back clenched that perfect ass around House’s length, sucking already tight muscles even tighter. Jimmy’s ass did an obscene little grind where it rested against House’s hips, all of Wilson’s muscles cinching up tight along his length like the younger man was trying to suck his orgasm out of him. House curled his fingers tightly around Wilson’s hips, holding him in place as House rolled his hips upward sharply until he remembered himself, huffing out a deep breath and forcing his grip lax.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers down along Jimmy’s thighs, his fingertips digging down into supple flesh. “Jesus, Jimmy,” he panted softly, as Wilson slipped his palms off House’s chest and planted them on the mattress by his head, curving his back slightly as Jimmy stretched over him. The younger man just gave him a little curl of a smile before he flexed his thighs, twisting his hips as he lifted off House’s cock, his rim clenching around House’s tip before he sunk down once more in an easy, rolling motion. Groaning, House’s head thumped back into the pillows as his hips jerked upward, after that tight, pulsing heat. Wilson’s hips ground down against his in a lewd little twist. House spread his hands along Jimmy’s thighs, his thumbs digging down into the tender inside as his hips rocked upward. All of Wilson’s muscles clenched along his length, just a brand-hot, vise-tight ripple of pleasure that pulled at House’s orgasm prematurely but so fucking _perfectly_. He bit roughly at his bottom lip, digging the sharp edge of his teeth into plump flesh as want licked brightly down his spine, yanking at that column of vertebrae. It rattled like shockwaves along his spinal cord, jerking at his hips and driving his dick up deeper into the tight grip of Wilson’s body. The younger man leaned forward, twisting all his muscles up tight as he rocked back onto House’s cock. The mattress shifted slightly as Jimmy folded his elbows to plant his forearms on either side of House’s head, pulling his knees in tight against House’s ribs as he ground his hips back. Wilson’s body curved delightfully, cinching up along his length, and House felt his dick jump against the tight clench of muscle.

He groaned, dragging his hands up along Wilson’s sides, hooking them around the younger man’s shoulders and pulling. His palm curled over the back of Jimmy’s neck and tugged until Wilson was leaning into him, their mouths crushed messily together. The younger man’s palms cradled his head, fingers curling through his hair as Jimmy’s hips twisted down slightly. And the angle, while fucking _spectacular,_ wasn’t quite good enough because Wilson only managed to sink about halfway down his length, and House was _greedy._ He moaned softly into that poor excuse of a kiss, his free hand dropping to Wilson’s hip and tugging in an attempt to bury his cock more firmly in the obscene clench of the younger man’s body. Wilson nipped at his lips as he unfolded his arms to press back more firmly on House’s dick. And honestly, how was he supposed to pick which he’d rather have, because Jimmy’s mouth was just out of reach even with his head hanging down between his outstretched forearms, but his weight had settled more firmly against House’s hips and that obscenely perfect ass was clenching around his length delightfully. Jimmy’s hips did some twisting motion, his whole body rolling with it as if the younger man were determined to drag House’s orgasm to the surface of his skin with that slow grind. Lucky for him, that need to cum seemed like it was still trying to hollow out his bones as House gripped tightly at Wilson’s thighs, his shoulders pressing roughly down into the mattress as his spine curved, pulling his hips up. But the teasing smile that curled at Jimmy’s mouth told him that the younger man was more than willing to cut it out of him as Wilson’s hips did another languid roll.

It lazy and unrushed, not that _that_ kept him from burning up inside, because sharp pleasure was wadding up tight in the cradle of his hips, spilling into his lower guts like molten lead. It coiled and cinched in all his deep muscles, aching with a hazy, dreamlike quality of heat. Jimmy’s knees spread, resting his weight more heavily against House’s hips, grinding down dirtily as his hands pressed hotly against House’s chest. House huffed out a small noise, his hands clutching at the younger man’s thighs as he rolled his hips upward. Wilson tipped down, his palms once more planting on the mattress, turning his back into a long slope as Jimmy pushed back into House, the angle of his body making all his muscles cinch up impossibly tighter as his hips rolled in something like a figure eight. House could feel the shift of muscles in Jimmy’s quads, in his glutes with that lazy athleticism. “Dance lessons,” he quipped, overlooking the breathlessness of his tone as House dug his fingers down into Wilson’s thighs, bearing down against trembling muscles.

“You have a,” Jimmy panted, his head tipping downward slightly as his knees spread outward and his hips ground down more heavily. He swallowed hard, lashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks. “A _real_ thing for leotards tonight, huh.”

House shoved an arm backward, managing to get an elbow up under him as he pressed up against the slope of Wilson’s chest. The hand still spread on the younger man’s thigh jumped back to curl around a hip, yanking until Jimmy’s thighs were effectively bracketing his hips. Something sharp flashed in those dark eyes as they jerked open. It felt a bit more predatory than it had any right feeling as Wilson’s arms looped around House’s neck. And really, House should have thought about it a _lot_ more than he had before he’d committed to the position, because his abdominals were twisted up tight despite the arm balanced behind him. Honestly, he should have propped himself against the headboard from the get-go, but his higher brain functions were a bit compromised. “You’ve got an ass _made_ for spandex,” he teased, hand slipping down to grab said ass and pull Wilson more firmly against him. Again, there was a breath of a laugh as Jimmy leaned in, nipping gently at House’s bottom lip before his tongue slid against that brief sting. It was instinct really for his mouth to part in invitation as the slick muscle bullied its way past his teeth. House groaned into the kiss as his fingers tightened against the younger man’s ass, pulling, because Jimmy’s hips were rolling lazily against his as Wilson’s tongue fucked languidly into House’s mouth. It was good, _Christ_ was it good, as pleasure snapped along his nerves, because their position kept Jimmy from bouncing in his lap, but House’s dick was wedged _so_ _fucking deep_ he was pretty sure he felt the flutter of Wilson’s diaphragm with every breath that the younger man took.

Wilson’s hand pulled down along House’s chest, his stomach, nails scratching gently against his skin until the younger man’s fingers curled around the hard length digging into House’s belly. And that initial stroke made Wilson’s body cinch up with pleasure, crushing a soft noise from under his ribs as he ground down against House’s cock. The younger man rocked a bit harder, tipping forward to grind his weeping tip against House’s skin, the curve of his spine doing something pretty spectacular to the muscles clenched around House’s own dick. It choked a groan out of his chest as House’s fingers dug down harder into the swell of Jimmy’s ass, pulling at the younger man until Wilson had managed yet another little obscene roll. House tried to tip his hips up into the crush of Jimmy’s weight, tried to wedge his dick even deeper into the hot clench of those muscles. Wilson’s knuckles brushed along his stomach with each stroke, just as languid and unhurried as the rest of it, like Jimmy didn’t really care to cum. Like he would gladly fuck House all night. Wilson leaned in, pressing his mouth messily to House’s, nipping at House’s lips before tucking his face just under House’s jaw with a soft noise. Jimmy’s weight skewed him fully on House’s dick, and he was pretty sure he could feel the flex of Wilson’s diaphragm as that thick band of muscle fluttered with each breath. Wilson’s hips did something obscene as slowly pulled his palm along his length, lazily fucking into his grip. And how was House just sit there and take it? As his fingers dug down hard into Wilson’s hips, pulling as his hips rolled upward impatiently with a low-seated groan. Wilson’s hand pulled along that pretty dick quicker as Jimmy rocked up into the clench of his fingers, grinding back down on House’s cock obscenely, chasing the rhythm House set. The younger man’s muscles fluttered against his length, tight ripples of pleasure in indication of the orgasm corkscrewing up Jimmy’s spine. House dug his nails down into the swell of flesh under his fingers, pulling sharply across soft skin in a way that had Wilson moaning low in his chest, his teeth closing just under the hinge of House’s jaw. House grunted, his hips jerking upward as best he could, his nails digging in further as he ground up into that clenching heat as Wilson came.

Jimmy’s spend dribbling from between his fingers, landing along his skin and making House moan softly. The feeling of the younger man’s cum, thick and hot, splattering against his belly, his chest was unfairly hot as Wilson milked his orgasm out of him, his muscles clenching hard around House’s length as the younger man ground his hips down. Jimmy shifted, fucking his wet cock against House’s skin, smearing the mess like a tangible brand of ownership while the younger man’s teeth tightened high on his throat. House’s whine was pulled thin, reedy as Wilson ground down harder, all those brand-hot muscles flexing vise-tight along his length. And that tore his own orgasm from his deep muscles, from where it had coiled sharp and tight at the base of his spine. Wilson’s hips ground down filthily, those hot muscles flexing hard against House’s length as his spine swayed inward, pressing his dick wetly against House’s belly as Jimmy wrung every ounce of pleasure from the moment that he could. Wilson whimpered against his skin, his motions gentling in a clear indication of overstimulation, but House figured it must have hurt so good, because Jimmy didn’t stop. The grind of his hips slowing but turning into something crushingly heavy as Wilson twisted his hips like he was forcibly snatching House’s orgasm from around his bones. He dug his fingers harder into the swell of Wilson’s ass, rocking his hips up marginally as he spilled into the younger man with a groan. Jimmy did another little twisting grind, his knees spreading out to press more firmly against House’s hips as his muscles all cinched up tight in a way that pulled House’s orgasm thin and sharp in the best kind of way. Wilson finally slumped against his chest, his breath panting wetly against that tender spot just under House’s jaw. It throbbed in time with House’s heartbeat, pulsing hotly as Wilson pulled his tongue and then pressed a gentle kiss against what was surely a vague approximation of Jimmy’s teeth bruised down into his skin. He moaned low in his chest.

“Fuck,” Jimmy gasped, shifting slightly against House’s hips. House managed a huff of laughter as he let his head drop against the younger man’s scalp. His heart was pounding hard against the bones of his chest, and the arm braced behind him was beginning to quiver, which was all to be expected. Because cumming like _that_ always stole all of his bones, and House flopped back against the mattress with a huffed-out breath, doing his damnedest to just melt into the bedclothes. And somehow, they had shifted upward on the bed, because the crown of his skull pressed roughly against the headboard in a way that it hadn’t when they’d started. And already, the viscous seminal fluid on his chest, high on his stomach was turning tacking even as Jimmy halfheartedly wiped at it with a corner of the top sheet. But his joints felt loose, and his spine felt soft like they always did after a rather spectacular round of fucking, courtesy of James Wilson. Made somehow even better with the lingering haze of THC still softening his thoughts. His whole chest shuddered weakly as House tried to catch his breath while pushing his fingers through Jimmy’s hair, letting his head fall back as much as he was able. Their skin was tacky, uncomfortably warm where it pressed together, but House was more than content to let Jimmy straddle his hips, with House’s softening dick still wedged as far into the younger man’s clenching heat as possible until gravity pulled them apart. He scraped his nails against the back of Wilson’s scalp, carding through sweat-dampened strands as that afterglow settled heavily in his joints, in his bones and dragged him toward that sleepy, fucked-out place.

“I love you,” Jimmy breathed out, his forehead pressed against House’s shoulder, his lips brushing softly along House’s collarbone. And suddenly House was _awake_. Because it was the first time Wilson had said those words aloud since Tennessee, not that House _needed_ to hear them. Especially considering that Wilson told him those three little words in casual kisses and lingering touches, in meals shared and lazy days tangled up in bed. But that didn’t mean House didn’t like hearing them, even if it cinched his chest up tight, because his mind had taken to guessing how many more times he would get to hear them, even if he only heard those words through the whisper of Jimmy’s skin against his.

“I love you,” he returned, for the first time ever. It was easier to say than he’d thought it would be, what with him all fucked out and his spiny barbs softened with pot. But still, House swore he felt those words bloom way down under his ribs, pressing all his organs out of the way and taking up all the space in his chest like some sort of revelation, like a religious experience. Wilson glanced up at him, eyes glittering as he shifted to bracket House’s head with his forearms and tipped his mouth down to press soft kisses against his lips. He could feel the younger man’s smile where their mouths pressed together, like out of all the things House had ever said, those three little words were the most brilliant. He pushed his fingers through Jimmy’s dark hair, tipping his head up into those kisses and said it again just to feel Wilson smile. “I love you, Jimmy.”

“Why Greg, who knew you were such a closeted romantic,” Wilson quipped softly, his mouth pulling into a teasing, fond smile between small kisses.

House grumbled and managed to get a pillow out from under him, swatting it roughly into Wilson’s shoulder and earning him a yelp of a laugh. “I take it back, you bastard.” But Jimmy just slid to the side and stayed like he always had, though their legs being tangled together was definitely a plus. Wilson pressed a lingering kiss to the point of his shoulder, lacing their fingers into a knot of muscle and bone that made House’s heart do what felt like a fucking backflip behind the bones of his chest. Which _really_ was a stupid thing, because holding hands was supposed to lose its magic after the first dozen times or so, but Jimmy curling his fingers through House’s managed to still snag at his breath.

“I love you, Greg.”

And the days became slow and sticky, like tacky autumnal weather, but House was more than okay with it. Because Jimmy was absolutely content spending those days stuck at the hip, like Wilson was trying to imprint House down into his skin, trying to memorize the way things could have been. And with deft fingers in his hair and soft, worshipping kisses against his throat, how could House complain? Especially as he watched the younger man move around that borrowed kitchen like it was _theirs_. He was _pretty_ certain that the sweats that Jimmy was wearing were his, because Wilson had the waistband of the pants rolled at least twice, and they were still riding low on Jimmy’s hips as the younger man transferred the groceries over to the fridge. But House was willing to overlook how loose Jimmy’s shirts had been getting because the way the sweatpants pulled down on his hips was pretty hot. House watched as Wilson shifted up on the balls of his feet to slip scallops onto the top shelf of the fridge.

“Why’d you get scallops? I thought you tended to shy away from shellfish in general.”

“Maybe,” House drawled, watching as Wilson tucked mushrooms into the crisper. “Or maybe we could have a risotto; that kid next door managed to get us a pretty nice Nebbiolo.”

“Mm,” Wilson hummed, stashing stew meat in the meat pan before the younger man tucked green onions and baby spinach on the middle shelf. Jimmy turned to face him, hands resting easily on his hips, and House could see where the ex-oncologist's shirt had ridden up, revealing a tiny sliver of skin pulled tight between Wilson’s hipbones. He knew that skin intimately, had brushed his lips against it, could still taste the soft whisper of Jimmy’s skin against his tongue. “Well, that sounds like a date night?” Jimmy shot him a coy smile as if he could read House’s thoughts. “I’ve never made a risotto; sure, why not. Sounds fun.”

His eyebrows raised because House was _pretty sure_ that Jimmy had had a bar mitzvah. Actually, he couldn’t imagine Margot Wilson not pushing her boys to do their best at their lessons, and he’d heard Jimmy casually drop Hebraic curses when more than mildly intoxicated. So, the man before him could haltingly speak Hebrew and make gnocchi from scratch and had a medical degree from Columbia, but Jimmy had never made a risotto? House’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched Jimmy practically dance around the kitchen, putting the groceries in their proper places.

“So, you know how to make homemade gnocchi, but you’ve never made risotto?”

Wilson shrugged as he continued putting groceries away, knocking a cupboard door closed with his hip. “Well, technically, Bubbie was Polish, and that makes it more like koptyka but same thing essentially.”

House just stared at him because Jimmy could apparently haltingly speak Hebrew _and_ Polish, or at least knew a handful of words. And how was it that he was finding out all those tidbits with Jimmy’s death right around the corner? Because it was just another thing that drew him irrevocably in Wilson’s direction. Eventually, after pulled long moments of silence, Wilson glanced over his shoulder at him curiously. “What?”

He crossed the kitchen as quickly as he was able, boxing Jimmy up against the edge of the counter. Wilson pulled a face but let himself tilt back into the corner of the counters, his head tipping upward to press a lingering kiss to House’s mouth. “Can you talk dirty to me in Hebraic,” House asked, his voice a low purr as he leaned into Jimmy and pressed soft kisses along the long line of Wilson’s throat. “Put those lessons to good use.”

“Mm,” Wilson hummed, and House could feel that sound where that sound caught in the younger man’s throat. “I think it’s more like a working knowledge of Yiddish, but I could probably make it work,” Jimmy murmured lowly as if House’s request hadn’t been random and kind of odd. His hands slipped into House’s back pockets and pulled him closer. Their hips rocked lazily together, and House dropped his mouth to the crook of Wilson’s neck, his teeth worrying at the fragile skin there. “But I’d rather not, because that is a _lot_ of phlegm.” He hummed against the younger man’s throat. “Besides, I thought we were making risotto?”

“Really? I thought we were making out in the kitchen,” House quipped, nipping at Jimmy’s skin.

“How odd. One of those sounds so much more romantic than the other.”

And he really couldn’t say no to the younger man. So, somehow making out in the kitchen became Jimmy leaned against the counter, lazily stirring the rice for risotto. House tilted closer and added a bit of broth while he waited for the oil in his skillet to heat to screaming hot. The scallops were sitting out on a paper towel in an attempt to soak up the excess water without overly patting them. It was nice, domestic; it was all he’d ever wanted as they shared sips of that Nebbiolo straight from the bottle and they played some sort of lackluster Truth or Dare.

“Worst high school memory,” Wilson asked, giving House a smile that toyed at mischievous as he passed the bottle back over.

“Ugh,” House groaned, rolling his eyes as his shoulders slumped as he took a swig. “Really? _That’s_ what you wanna know?” Wilson just gave him a look as he continued stirring. House added another bit of broth as he sighed. “Fine. I may have thrown up all over Lacey McAllister’s dress at Senior Prom.” That little nugget of information was met with silence, which House had at least expected a huffed out laugh. He glanced over at Wilson, who was wearing a wan expression. “What.”

“Nothing,” the younger man responded too quickly for it to be nothing.

“What,” he repeated, patting at the scallops before plopping them in the pan, giving them a shake.

“I just,” Jimmy shrugged, pausing to rub at the back of his neck. “I never got to go to prom. It’s just sad that something so monumental has something negative connected to it.” House was pretty sure the younger man hadn’t meant for his statement to come out like a question, but Wilson’s tone had lilted up questioningly all the same.

He turned to regard the ex-oncologist, because how was it right in any universe that Panty Peeler James Wilson hadn’t gone to prom. “You didn’t go to prom.”

Jimmy shrugged again. “The first time I had an AP Calculus test, and well, schoolwork always took precedence, you know. The second time Bubbie had a broken arm, and I was staying with her.”

House just stared at Wilson before remembering the scallops. “Kind of surprised Mike didn’t stay with her. He’s always been a bit of an ass kisser,” he grumbled, more than a bit affronted on Wilson’s behalf, because he was willing to bet that neither Michael nor Danny had been made to miss not one but _both_ of their prom nights.

“ _Michael_ ,” Jimmy stressed, “was already in college. It was just easier for me to do it, than for him to come back from Connecticut.” Wilson shrugged like it was no big deal, but House could see where it burred at the younger man. Because with limited time left, Wilson was probably remembering every little thing he’d missed out on – the good, the bad, and the ugly.

“You didn’t miss much,” House muttered quietly as he took the scallops up. “Just a bunch of awkward teenagers feeling each other up in dark corners of the gym to shitty slow songs.” He shrugged, trying to downplay it because Wilson was _exactly_ the type of person who would have enjoyed prom.

“Sounds terrible,” Wilson snarked, nose scrunch implied as he moved the risotto to the back of the stove. House stole the wooden spoon from the skillet and licked the back of it cheekily, earning him an eyeroll. But he needed that cheekiness, because already his mind was offering up pretty terrible ideas. Terrible if only because they were so soft it literally hurt him to think them. House watched Wilson pour them each a proper glass of wine as they ate and as House admittedly overthought the evening. Because the longer he thought about it, the longer House’s mind dwelled on those soft thoughts, because Jimmy _deserved_ nice things. Jimmy deserved to enjoy a prom night. Before he could rethink it, House put on that overplayed Norah Jones album. And while _technically_ the entire album was romantic to some degree, there were a few songs that were overtly romantic, and really only _one_ song that would suffice for what he had in mind. Huffing out a steeling breath, House hit play and Norah crooned to them from the hidden away speakers, her voice soft and smoky over slow piano notes.

_It’s not the pale moon that excites me; that thrills and delights me. Oh no, it’s just the nearness of you._

“You hate this song,” Jimmy quipped breathily, blinking up at House a bit dumbly as he shuffled over to where the younger man was eying him warily with an almost smile on his face.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, already reaching for Wilson. He was definitely going to blame the idea on the rich tannins and high alcohol content of that Nebbiolo if asked. “Just get on your feet.”

The small smile that bloomed across Jimmy’s face wrenched at his heart, because it was such a fragile thing, so tenderhearted as the younger man got to his feet. The candlelight flickered in a dance all its own as Wilson folded himself against House’s chest, his arms lacing around House’s neck as House slid his hands along the small of the younger man’s back. Their awkwardly coordinated movement could hardly be considered more than swaying; in fact, House was pretty sure that neither of their legs moved the entire time he held Wilson close. Not that it mattered, because that was how he wanted to remember Jimmy, with Wilson clinging desperately to him like House was the last good thing he had in the world. Because the younger man felt so real, so _alive_ in his arms that it almost didn’t feel like goodbye. House could overlook the crinkle of lashes on his skin, the tears wetting his collar, because Wilson was firm and warm and present under his hands. He knotted his fingers in the worn cotton under his palms as if he could pull Jimmy closer as he pressed his face to that soft, dark hair. And Wilson’s hands dug down into his shoulders as he buried his face more firmly into the crook of House’s neck, as if to smother the wet hitch of his breathing, to hide the tears trailing lethargically down his cheeks.

And how was roughly three minutes supposed to be anywhere long enough to hold him over between then and the grave? Especially as Jimmy splintered apart in his arms and they both pretended that no tears had been spilled.

One song should have been all House was willing to suffer through, but as _The Nearness of You_ faded away, Wilson’s fingers clutched at him desperately as damp breath shuddered against his throat. So, he just squeezed the younger man a little tighter as one song became three became the whole album. House made the silent promise to suffer as long as his leg would let him, because it was all terrifying. The whole thought of dying, of missing out on more moments like that, of no more Jimmy.

When he was pretty sure the album had started over once more, House untangled himself slowly. He cupped Wilson’s face, smoothing away that dampness on the younger man’s red cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re such a girl, aren’t you Jimmy?”

Jimmy wheezed out a wet laugh, pulling away to jerk his shirt up to scrub at his face. “Shut up,” he huffed out, his words muffled by worn fabric. “You’re such a dick,” the younger man grumbled, tugging his shirt back into place before he gave House an affectionate look. “I need another drink.”

The rest of the night spiraled down into lukewarm wine and sloppier and sloppier kisses. And who would have ever known that slow dancing was apparently the key to having a bedful of an attractive younger man as he and Jimmy fell into bed together. Because when Wilson looked at him with those brightly glimmering eyes and offered up that brightly ringing laughter, House couldn’t help but feel a warm shaft of affection toward the younger man as Jimmy leaned into him and one kiss became more. As Wilson pulled House in close and tugged at his shirt. As hot palms skimmed along skin, and fingers tangled together as he pinned Jimmy to the bed. And the feeling of the younger man’s legs spreading for him, Jimmy’s thighs squeezing against his ribs set House burning. House muffled his whines and groans against the line of Wilson’s throat, left them there along soft skin amid sucking kisses and sharp nips. He pulled his hands, hot and possessive, along Jimmy’s sides and curled them around the younger man’s hips, tugging Wilson closer to him.

Their lips, their bodies crushed together, into a long and burning line of passion wrapped in muscle and blood, given a heartbeat. Jimmy’s fingers curled in his hair, dug down against the jut of his shoulder as the younger man opened for him like he’d been made for House. And soft, broken noises breathed against his ear like tangible caresses, dug down into his flesh like lust given nails. House pressed bruises into Wilson’s skin, sucked a mark to the line of his throat as they moved together in that primordial pursuit of pleasure. The clench of Jimmy’s body, the grip of his hands grounded House, anchored him in place as he lost himself in the younger man. And as that afterglow crept over them lazy and lovely, settled into their bones, House hummed softly against Jimmy’s chest as he stretched along Wilson’s side. He wound his arms around the ex-oncologist and pulled Wilson more firmly to him, folding the younger man in close and tight like House could keep Jimmy right there with him for always, cancer be damned. He drifted to the feeling of fingers combing through his hair, slow and languid, and the pound of Jimmy’s heart beneath his ear.

Time ceased to be broken into seconds, minutes, hours. Instead, it became a thing broken up by lazy smiles and soft kisses, by urgent hands and slow nights. House kept track of the days passing by mornings spent tangled up in Jimmy, and afternoons spent on the porch blowing smoke at one another, and evenings hazy with copious amounts of alcohol and good food and sloppy kisses. And that felt like a better means of the measurement of time than the Gregorian calendar ever was.

House looked over at the younger man, where Wilson was making them something he’d only thought of an hour or so before. The late afternoon light was falling through the kitchen windows, tangling with Wilson’s dark hair and softening the edges of his face. The collar of his shirt was stretched out, showing off just a hint of his collarbone. And Jimmy looked so perfect there that he pulled the words from House’s chest, just as mindlessly as breathing. “Did you ever think we would wind up here,” House asked, seemingly out of the blue. But honestly, it was something he’d been wondering about for as long as he could remember. Since he had bailed out a downtrodden young man, with bruised knuckles and cheeks pinkened with bourbon he didn’t look old enough to drink and irritation at something as ridiculous as a song. Since a weekend of free-flowing drinks and bright laughter and easy smiles. And if not since _then_ , definitely since Jimmy had thrown reckless caution to the winds and moved across state lines for a job all because House had called him.

Almost nineteen years of that thought, to some degree, rattling around inside his skull.

“You know, when I was planning out my life, I can _honestly_ say that me getting cancer wasn’t included,” Wilson quipped from the stove, the muscles in his back flexing as he stirred. House was pretty sure the younger man was just winging dinner, because he’d already added heavy cream, white wine, and garlic to his sautéed mushrooms. Jimmy sipped his wine, glancing over his shoulder teasingly at House.

“No,” he started. “I mean all this,” House gestured vaguely around the kitchen, as if including the cabin as well as themselves in that motion.

And there must have been something serious in his face because Wilson put down his wine and turned, tucking himself into the corner of the cabinets and looking at House curiously. House huffed out a sigh and drained his glass. It sounded stupid when he said it out loud, and he really wished he had learned when to just shut the fuck up. But the younger man was just looking at him patiently, with his head just barely tipped to the side with those puppy dog eyes as Wilson waited for him to continue his words. House swallowed roughly and pushed himself to his feet, desperately needing another drink if Wilson was going to start pulling that overly sensitive bullshit on him. But Jimmy, _that bastard_ , snatched up the bottle of wine and held it to his chest while he gave House a look. “Greg,” was all he said, was all he _needed_ to say. And Christ, House realized then that he _might_ be a little whipped. Just a little bit though, and honestly, he could hardly be blamed.

Damn pretty ex-oncologists with magic dicks.

Huffing out a sigh, he doubled down, giving Wilson a look. “Did you ever think we’d be _here_ ,” House repeated, stepping closer to Wilson. “That you’d be out here in the wilderness with some guy you’d never met before he bailed you out of jail. Some guy you decided to take a chance on _not_ murdering you to be friends with for the better part of twenty years. That we’d be _here_ ,” he stressed because he didn’t know how else to say it. Because the last eighteen years had been House kind of seeing how hard he could push, testing his limits to see if Jimmy would stay, because everyone went away in the end. And every time Wilson had stayed, every time he came back, that affection had bloomed sharp and hot in House’s chest like brambles lacing through his ribs. Because House had always _hoped_ that they’d wind up there in the end, but hope was such a dangerous thing.

Wilson’s face softened even as his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “When you say it like that, it sounds like a shitty Lifetime movie. Now’s when you tell me that out here no one can hear me scream,” the younger man quipped, finally holding out the wine bottle to him.

House huffed out an irritated breath and made to snatch the bottle from Wilson, but Jimmy just tugged it back out of reach. He had just opened his mouth to tell the younger man off when he noticed the look Wilson was giving him. Something soft and open, achingly tenderhearted as those cold espresso eyes looked up at him, wet and glimmering in a way that snatched at his breath. “I had maybe hoped,” Jimmy said haltingly, his gaze darting out the window as he blinked away those tears. “I, at first, thought maybe you were still figuring out things. But then,” Wilson swallowed roughly, his head tipping back to regard the ceiling. “Then you know, Stacy and Bonnie and all those people in between _then_ and _now_.” His shoulders rolled in a shallow shrug, folding in as if to make himself smaller as he cleared his throat. “You never said anything, and I figured the Friend Zone was better than nothing.”

“You never said anything either,” he grumbled, even as he stepped closer, drawn in by his heartstrings.

“I moved back to New Jersey for you,” Jimmy said with a wet laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Nuhuh,” House bit out petulantly as he boxed Wilson in against the counter and took hold of the bottle’s neck. “You needed a job.” He finally pulled the wine free.

The younger man rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, grimacing slightly. “I kinda turned down a spot with the Hospital of UPenn when Cuddy offered me the job.”

“What,” House deadpanned. Because Penn Medicine was supposedly pretty good to its doctors, with opportunities for upward growth and the ability to shift between the various hospitals owned by it for continued professional engagement. But Princeton-Plainsboro had been pretty good to Jimmy, considering he’d been hired in as just a lowly oncologist and managed to become the youngest department head within just a few years; not to mention he’d catapulted the oncology ward into something to be envied. Still though, the Hospital at University of Pennsylvania was a pretty big deal.

Jimmy just shrugged, throwing up a hand as he pushed past House to return to the stove. Which, thank God the heat was on low because he had forgotten all about the sauce.

“Well, no wonder your mother fucking hates me,” House exclaimed before upturning the bottle and taking a swig.

“My mother doesn’t _hate_ you,” the younger man huffed out, eyeroll implied as he dumped the pasta in the sauce and stirred in some more parmesan. House wiggled his head at him mockingly because Margot Wilson barely _tolerated_ him at best.

“You apparently gave up a spot at a top-ranking teaching hospital with a pretty spectacular oncology program because of me. Uh yeah, your mom hates me,” he quipped before taking another drink of wine. Wilson held out his glass for a refill in response, giving him a look. House held the wine bottle against his chest. “You do that for all the boys who call you again,” he asked teasingly, trying not to think about it too much, because the longer he thought about it, the heavier it felt. Because Jimmy had upended his whole life for House after a drunken weekend in a southern city and various day trips. Had turned down something safe and known for _House_. Wilson huffed and turned back to the stove, forgoing the wine in favor of keeping dinner from sticking to the skillet.

“You saw me,” Wilson finally said, shattering the quiet that had pooled between them. He swallowed roughly as Jimmy just shrugged, offered up that secret like it was nothing. “My whole life it felt like people had just been looking through me, like they just _knew_ I would be exactly what they expected me to be. But you saw me.”

And that was true House supposed. Because to the rest of the world, James Wilson had just been the middle son from a well-to-do Jewish family, raised in a charming brownstone in an affluent neighborhood and destined to do great things. But to House, Jimmy had been worn down at the edges, forced to fit into an ideal that he hadn’t necessarily been made for. Because for his good grades and athleticism and overall preppiness, Wilson hadn’t been made for white picket fences, a pretty wife, or two point five kids like some quintessential all American male.

And how tragic was it that Jimmy had spent so much of his life chasing what other people wanted _for_ him, instead of what he wanted for himself? 

“I see you,” House breathed out, watching as Wilson folded roughly chopped spinach and crumbled what looked like feta into the skillet. “Did you just put _feta_ cheese in an Italian dish,” he scoffed, lip curling as House tried to break up the moment. Because it felt so very heavy, sitting there on his heart, and how had he never known? How had he never thought to ask? House had always just assumed that Wilson, being essentially fresh out of school, had needed a job. So, when the position had come open, House had struggled with reaching out the younger man, because they had haltingly curated a friendship pulled across state lines and work weeks. Him telling Wilson about that job had irrevocably changed everything, because it had been the first line drawn greedily, _readily_ into the sand. But he had reached out all the same because something in him had _demanded_ it of him. He had geared himself up for the younger man to balk, to wave it away, but Wilson had stepped across that proverbial line with that quiet, admittedly attractive confidence and knocked House through a loop once more.

“I put feta in whatever this is,” Wilson corrected, shutting off the cooktop and giving House a look. “I seem to recall you going through a phase where you took cooking classes, so if you have an issue with it, by all means,” Jimmy quipped, gesturing toward the stove. House just refilled their wine glasses and turned to get bowls, handing them over with a bitten back grin. Wilson just rolled his eyes and scooped up some of the pasta dish.

“But you look so cute doing it,” House pouted, taking the wine and silverware to the table. “Playing Little Miss Suzy Homemaker,” he teased, earning him a huff of laughter.

He watched the candle flicker, sending guttering light scattering along the pine beams of the ceiling. And it was more romantic than it had any right being, like slow dancing in the kitchen or sharing a kiss at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve or some other Hallmark bullshit moment. But Jimmy wouldn’t live to see another New Year’s Eve, and slow dancing in the kitchen had just been a one-time thing. The pasta dish was better than he had ever expected, because sitting there at the table with Jimmy’s leg thrown over his lap as they sipped wine was perfect. And well, that was how it should have always been. In fact, the last few days had been how it should have always been. If they’d always just kept on being Greg and Jimmy. He curled his fingers over Wilson’s ankle, smoothing his thumb over tender skin and delicate bone as he leaned into that easy glow of affection.

And while it was how it should have always been, that softness and easy love, there were still some things that needed to be taken care of. And House was just fighting an internal battle about how to go about those things. He paced in the living room, watching night fall outside those stretching windows. Finally, he stopped and picked up the phone. His thumb pressed into each key like a nail in the coffin.

It rang, and rang, and rang before kicking over to voicemail.

For a fleeting moment, House thought that maybe it was fate. That he wasn’t meant to call as he angrily hit the _end_ button. He rubbed at his mouth, pacing once more as he made up his mind. He jabbed the keys again. House suffered through the tinny ringing and rambling voicemail message before ending the call once more.

And he told himself that it was either third time’s a charm or nothing at all.

“Hello,” drifted into his ear, edged in exasperation as the call finally picked up. A child screamed in the background, the sound clumped together with exaggerated tears and the sound of something being thrown.

“Hey,” he breathed out, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen some. Because it was all going to be alright.

“House,” Cuddy exclaimed over the line, tone sharp and shrill.

“Lisa, listen,” House started in, but she cut him off.

“I _buried_ you!”

“That’s not important,” he huffed out, turning to face the windows and watch as the sun drifted those last few inches beneath the lake’s surface.

“Not important? You’re supposed to be _dead_ ,” she continued, and he began to wish he’d called Chase or Foreman instead. But Cuddy was Wilson’s friend too. She deserved some sort of heads up, even if he was using it as a thin veneer to manipulate her. Huffing, he wrapped an arm around himself defensively because Jimmy was only laying down, and who knew how long he’d have to get the conversation over with.

“Lisa!”

She fell quiet on the other side of the line.

“I can explain all of that, but look,” he started, huffing out a breath. “Listen, it’s Jimmy alright?”

“Wilson,” she asked softly, and he imagined him being concerned about another person had her attention. “What’s going on, House?”

“He’s got cancer; it’s pretty bad.” House blinked against those words, because they knocked into him like the biggest fucking understatement of the year. “I need you to come get us.”

“How bad,” Cuddy whispered.

“Bad.” He really wasn’t in the mood to expound on what that word meant, and he definitely wasn’t about to tell her about the rest of it. And honestly, maybe he should have called Foreman instead. Because Foreman would have at least been curious, picking the whole thing apart with a shrewdness that years under House’s tutelage had curated.

“Where are you?”

“Michigan.”

“Michigan,” she exclaimed over the phone. “Are you serious?” Cuddy groaned over the line.

“I’m not asking you to come for me,” he snapped out. “I’m asking you to do this for Wilson. It’s a two-hour flight. Just come get us.”

Silence hummed over the line, and for a moment, House wondered if the call had been dropped.

“I have to get time off from work and book a flight. It might be a couple of days.”

“It needs to be tomorrow.”

“House,” Cuddy started. “You can’t just expect me to drop everything because a ghost says so.”

“No,” he scoffed. “I was expecting you to drop everything because Jimmy has always been a good friend to you. It needs to be tomorrow.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

His chest loosened that final bit as House sucked in a deep breath. He rattled off the address and had her repeat it back to him twice to be sure. “Thank you,” he breathed out.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” Cuddy asked softly, cautiously because after all their years together, she had at least picked up when to tread lightly.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, letting his tone lilt like a promise, before hanging up. He left the phone on the end table and pushed his fingers into his hair.

“Was that payback for Tritter,” Jimmy asked softly from the bedroom door, pulling House’s attention. It was instinctual to cross the room, to gather the younger man into his arms and against his chest. Wilson dipped his head slightly, pressing his face to House’s neck. The feeling of the younger man breathing against his skin was soothing, like some sort of reminder that Wilson was still there, still with him.

“More like insurance,” House managed to mutter, even as his chest squeezed tight again. Wilson’s hands slid up his back, his fingers digging into House’s shirt as he pulled House closer. It certainly _felt_ like a goodbye hug, as Wilson leaned into him, arms banding around House’s chest and his fingers digging down into the meat of House’s shoulders. “How was your nap?”

Wilson hummed against his throat. “Been awake since you left bed.”

House heard the words that remained unspoken between them, because they had both been thinking way too much, way too loud, and that poem was no longer enough to bridge the gap of their thoughts. Because they were running out of time, and the pressure of it was bearing down roughly against them as the last grains of sand rattled around at the bottom of the hourglass, toying with falling downward.

“I figured we’d have a couple of drinks, heat up a little food, and see where the night takes us.”

But of course, House already knew where their night was going as he pulled the Dutch oven out of the fridge and set it on the stove to heat up the bourguignon. Because they had both reached their breaking points, even if neither of them would admit to it; one born of unimaginable hurts and lives cut too short when they had so much good left to give. Theirs was a pact made of missing muscle and broken hearts, whispered in the lives they had built and shared, solidified in the devotion of breathless kisses and steady hands. And even if neither of them would ever admit it aloud, there was an unwillingness to go into the dark alone. Or at least, there was an unwillingness on House’s part. He would follow the younger man wherever; no questions asked. To the end of time itself. So, as the younger man went about retrieving wine from the cabinet, House retrieved the glass that Jimmy had started all those days ago. Ten days felt like a lifetime ago, like sepia-colored memories strewn across decades, but it felt right. Like they’d lived enough of their best lives and needed to go out on a high note. Like if they left it any longer, that fucked up, definitely there God would realize that they had a good thing out there and snatch it cruelly away. And along with that glass, he brought a second, tilting the glasses just to watch the powder shift, because wasn’t it a funny thing seeing death trapped in something so domestic as borrowed glassware.

The silence pulled long and taunt between them as Jimmy turned around, as he caught sight of those glasses in House’s hands. There wasn’t a hitch as the younger man tried to understand, to draw connections, because Wilson _always_ saw him. Instead, there was bright indignation sparking in dark eyes as if Jimmy was affronted House would even offer that up as a possible conclusion. Like Wilson was irritated that House, with an unknown amount of life left, would just choose to throw it all away. But House had a sinking suspicion that that had been his own end plan from the get-go. What was the point of living his life without Jimmy in it, after all?

“I didn’t mean for you to do it with me!” Wilson tensed, his eyes flashing with his expression caught somewhere between anxious and angry with House. House just merely placed the glasses down at the edge of the counter, just one more definite line in the sand waiting to be crossed as Wilson continued his little meltdown. “Are you _insane_?” Jimmy’s hands found their way into the younger man’s hair, tugging in frustration as the words groaned out of his throat. “I’d have never asked you to help me if I thought you were going to do it too!”

House drew in a deep breath, trying not to pity the younger man, because of course James Wilson had thought he would just commit suicide all by his lonesome. Had thought that House would just facilitate Jimmy’s demise, hang about twiddling his thumbs while the younger man drew his last breaths, call an ambulance. That he would just disappear into the night like nothing had changed. Like his whole world hadn’t fucking shattered beyond repair. “Don’t be an idiot,” House finally snapped, feeling some sharp emotion mount heavily in his chest, pushing against his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Dark eyes peered up at him, wide and blinking owlishly as they glimmered wetly. And House’s hands trembled only a little as he lifted them, palms cupping Jimmy’s face like something precious, something delicate and cherished. And that close, Wilson’s eyes were black holes, sucking him in, consuming him. House rested his forehead against the younger man’s and exhaled slowly, searching for the words to say because he sure as fuck had never been good with anything that wasn’t bitterness and sarcasm. How was it fair of that probably there, fucked up God to expect him to try to be otherwise, especially there at the end of Wilson’s life?

“I meant it, Jimmy,” he whispered because he had to try. Wilson was worth him trying. “I need you. Always have, haven’t I?” House breathed out a sound that might have been a laugh because it had _always_ been Wilson and Vicodin. He brushed thumbpads along the sharpening cuts of Wilson’s cheekbones as House swallowed hard, blinked away the sharp prickling there at the backs of his eyes. “I have no idea what to do without you. And I don’t want to know. I need you, Jimmy,” he stressed, dipping his head once more to press a kiss to those lips. That close, he could see the pearlescent shimmer of Wilson’s tears, as the ex-oncologist blinked rapidly and sent the droplets scattered down his cheeks as he gave the barest of nods. House caught them on the pads of his thumbs, let them soak into his skin as he pressed his forehead once more to the younger man’s, because that was all he needed. Just that second of understanding, a heartbeat of acceptance. He would gladly let the moment pass after he had that. “Oh God,” House huffed out teasingly, more than ready to escape the brittle honesty uncovered between them. He was more than capable of ignoring how squeezed tight his voice was. “You really are a woman, aren’t you?”

Wilson gave a watery laugh, eyes closing firmly to banish any lingering tears. “You’re an ass,” he croaked out, all rancor gone from his tone as he folded himself in against House’s chest. And wasn’t it funny how those words sounded suspiciously like _I love you_. His arms wrapped around the younger man, and House tried not to pay too much attention to the way Wilson’s shoulders and chest jumped with each breath, like he couldn’t get enough air.

And for it being a last meal of sorts, it was rather unimpressive. Just still slightly cold beef bourguignon and kind of chewy egg noodles and really dry red wine. The entire time, the two glasses stood as sentinels at the edge of the countertop, looking slightly ominous with their bottoms filled with white powder. At some point, Jimmy reached a hand out across the table, rested it palm up toward House in an entreaty of sorts, and how was House supposed to say no to that. So, he curled his hand around Wilson’s, lacing their fingers together in a way House had been itching to do for _years_. And Jimmy did the dishes while House rifled through the liquor cabinet, as though nothing was different than all the other nights before. His fingers finally curled around the bottle of Blanton’s because there was really only one way for it to all end. Just the way it all began. And in the end, he folded himself down in the crook of the couch, holding his arm out for Wilson to crawl in against his side. They shared lazy kisses before pouring the bourbon, the deep amber washing away white powder until only innocuous looking alcohol remained.

“My mother always told me to watch my drinks at parties,” House huffed out, feeling the smile curve begrudgingly at the corners of his mouth as he looked at the younger man, and that was how he wanted to remember Jimmy. Because Wilson was all backlit with warm candlelight, his edges worn soft and tender. His lips just barely tipped up in a smile as he rested against House’s side and looked up at House like he was the only thing Jimmy ever needed. Wilson just breathed out a laugh, tipping forward to press his forehead against House’s. Jimmy’s smile was a demure thing, something soft and open and fond as he tilted his head downward until there was the whisper of Wilson’s breath on his lips, his nose brushing House’s slightly. The kiss was chaste, as Jimmy’s palm cupped the back of his head, kissing slow and languid like they had all the time in the world.

“Lucky for you, your mother thinks I’m quite a catch,” the younger man teased against his lips before pulling away to clink the rim of his glass to House’s with a smile that seemed to snatch at House’s breath. Because right then, Jimmy looked so _confident_ in his choices that there was no way House couldn’t feel the same. “L’chaim.”

He felt his heart catch roughly under his ribs because eternity with Jimmy just felt _right_. House let the small smile twist at the corners of his lips. “L’chaim,” he muttered, lifting his glass.

It needed to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. That's a lot of words.
> 
> Gotta take a step back from this for a bit because it is spiraling out of control, and I have other obligations. There are at least another 2.5 more bits of this trash from before the Call My Name storyline.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, because I was remiss about title info; all titles taken from:  
> 1) Call My Name - Unlikely Candidates (acoustic version)  
> 2) Otherside - RHCP  
> 3) Fade Into You - Mazzy Star 
> 
> The referenced Jim Morrison poems *are* Jim Morrison's, because that's what it took for this part to get its ass in gear - words of obscure poetry from a long-dead rock god.


End file.
